MOTHER 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NKW  YORK  •    BOSTON  -   CHICAGO 
SAN   FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

LONDON   •    BOMBAY   •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LTD. 

TORONTO 


-MOTHER 

A  STORY 

u. 


BY 

KATHLEEN   NORRIS 

il 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 
1912 

Ail  rights  reserved 


COPYRIGHT,  1911, 
BY  THE  PHILLIPS  PUBLISHING  CO. 

COPYRIGHT,  1911, 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published  October,  191* 
Reprinted   December,  three  times,  1911 ;  January, 
twice,  1912;  February,  March,  twice,  June,  twice,  July, 
twirr,  August,  1912- 


Nottoooft 

J.  8.  Gushing  Co.  -  Berwick  <fc  Smith  Oo. 
Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


TO 
J.  E.  T.  AND  J.  A.  T. 

As  years  ago  we  carried  to  your  knees 

The  tales  and  treasures  of  eventful  days, 

Knowing  no  deed  too  humble  for  your  praise, 

Nor  any  gift  too  trivial  to  please, 

So  still  we  bring,  with  older  smiles  and  tears, 

What  gifts  we  may,  to  claim  the  old,  dear  right ; 

Your  faith,  beyond  the  silence  and  the  night, 

Your  love  still  close  and  watching  through  the  years. 


282206 


MOTHER 


CHAPTER  I 

|  ELL,  we  couldn't  have  much 
worse  weather  than  this  for  the 
last  week  of  school,  could  we?" 
Margaret  Paget  said  in  discour 
agement.  She  stood  at  one  of 
the  school  windows,  her  hands  thrust  deep  in  her 
coat  pockets  for  warmth,  her  eyes  following  the 
whirling  course  of  the  storm  that  howled  outside. 
The  day  had  commenced  with  snow,  but  now, 
at  twelve  o'clock,  the  rain  was  falling  in  sheets, 
and  the  barren  schoolhouse  yard,  and  the  play- 
shed  roof,  ran  muddy  streams  of  water. 

Margaret  had  taught  in  this  schoolroom  for 
nearly  four  years  now,  ever  since  her  seven 
teenth  birthday,  and  she  knew  every  feature  of 
the  big  bare  room  by  heart,  and  every  detail  of 
the  length  of  village  street  that  the  high,  uncur- 

6  I 


2  Mother 

tained  windows  commanded.  She  had  stood 
at  this  window  in  all  weathers :  when  locust 
and  lilac  made  even  ugly  little  Weston  en 
chanting,  and  all  the  windows  were  open  to 
floods  of  sweet  spring  air;  when  the  dry  heat 
of  autumn  burned  over  the  world;  when  the 
common  little  houses  and  barns,  and  the  bare 
trees,  lay  dazzling  and  transfigured  under  the 
first  snowfall,  and  the  wood  crackled  in  the 
schoolroom  stove;  and  when,  as  to-day,  mid 
winter  rains  swept  drearily  past  the  windows, 
and  the  children  must  have  the  lights  lighted 
for  their  writing  lesson.  She  was  tired  of  it 
all,  with  an  utter  and  hopeless  weariness.  Tired 
of  the  bells,  and  the  whispering,  and  the  shuffling 
feet,  of  the  books  that  smelled  of  pencil-dust 
and  ink  and  little  dusty  fingers;  tired  of  the 
blackboards,  cleaned  in  great  irregular  scallops 
by  small  and  zealous  arms;  of  the  clear-ticking 
big  clock;  of  little  girls  who  sulked,  and  little 
girls  who  cried  after  hours  in  the  hall  because 
they  had  lost  their  lunch  baskets  or  their  over 
shoes,  and  little  girls  who  had  colds  in  their 
heads,  and  no  handkerchiefs.  Looking  out  into 


Mother  3 

the  gray  day  and  the  rain,  Margaret  said  to 
herself  that  she  was  sick  of  it  all ! 

There  were  no  little  girls  in  the  schoolroom 
now.  They  were  for  the  most  part  downstairs 
in  the  big  playroom,  discussing  cold  lunches, 
and  planning,  presumably,  the  joys  of  the  closely 
approaching  holidays.  One  or  two  windows 
had  been  partially  opened  to  air  the  room  in 
their  absence,  and  Margaret's  only  companion 
was  another  teacher,  Emily  Porter,  a  cheerful 
little  widow,  whose  plain  rosy  face  was  in  marked 
contrast  to  the  younger  woman's  unusual 
beauty. 

Mrs.  Porter  loved  Margaret  and  admired 
her  very  much,  but  she  herself  loved  teaching. 
She  had  had  a  hard  fight  to  secure  this  position 
a  few  years  ago;  it  meant  comfort  to  her  and 
her  children,  and  it  still  seemed  to  her  a  miracle 
of  God's  working,  after  her  years  of  struggle 
and  worry.  She  could  not  understand  why 
Margaret  wanted  anything  better;  what  better 
thing  indeed  could  life  hold  I  Sometimes,  look 
ing  admiringly  at  her  associate's  crown  of 
tawny  braids,  at  the  dark  eyes  and  the  ex- 


4  Mother 

quisite  lines  of  mouth  and  forehead,  Mrs.  Porter 
would  find  herself  sympathetic  with  the  girl's 
vague  discontent  and  longings,  to  the  extent  of 
wishing  that  some  larger  social  circle  than  that 
of  Weston  might  have  a  chance  to  appreciate 
Margaret  Paget's  beauty,  that  "some  of  those 
painters  who  go  crazy  over  girls  not  half  as 
pretty"  might  see  her.  But  after  all,  sensible 
little  Mrs.  Porter  would  say  to  herself,  Weston 
was  a  "nice"  town,  only  four  hours  from  New 
York,  absolutely  up-to-date ;  and  Weston's  best 
people  were  all  "nice,"  and  the  Paget  girls  were 
very  popular,  and  "went  everywhere,"  —  young 
people  were  just  discontented  and  exacting,  that 
was  all ! 

She  came  to  Margaret's  side  now,  buttoned 
snugly  into  her  own  storm  coat,  and  they  looked 
out  at  the  rain  together.  Nothing  alive  was  in 
sight.  The  bare  trees  tossed  in  the  wind,  and  a 
garden  gate  halfway  down  the  row  of  little 
shabby  cottages  banged  and  banged. 

"Shame  —  this  is  the  worst  yet!"  Mrs.  Por 
ter  said.  "You  aren't  going  home  to  lunch  in 
all  this,  Margaret?" 


Mother  5 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  Margaret  said  despon 
dently.  "I'm  so  dead  that  I'd  make  a  cup  of 
tea  here  if  I  didn't  think  Mother  would  worry 
and  send  Julie  over  with  lunch." 

"I  brought  some  bread  and  butter  —  but  not 
much.  I  hoped  it  would  hold  up.  I  hate  to 
leave  Tom  and  Sister  alone  all  day,"  Mrs.  Por 
ter  said  dubiously.  "There's  tea  and  some  of 
those  bouillon  cubes  and  some  crackers  left. 
But  you're  so  tired,  I  don't  know  but  what  you 
ought  to  have  a  hearty  lunch." 

"Oh,  I'm  not  hungry."  Margaret  dropped 
into  a  desk,  put  her  elbows  on  it,  pushed  her 
hair  off  her  forehead.  The  other  woman  saw 
a  tear  slip  by  the  lowered,  long  lashes. 

"You're  exhausted,  aren't  you,  Margaret?" 
she  said  suddenly. 

The  little  tenderness  was  too  much.  Mar 
garet's  lip  shook. 

"Dead!"  she  said  unsteadily.  Presently  she 
added,  with  an  effort  at  cheerfulness,  "I'm  just 
cross,  I  guess,  Emily ;  don't  mind  me !  I'm 
tired  out  with  examinations  and — "  her  eyes 
filled  again  —  "and  I'm  sick  of  wet  cold  weather 


6  Mother 

and  rain  and  snow,"  she  added  childishly.  "Ouf 
house  is  full  of  muddy  rubbers  and  wet  clothes  ! 
Other  people  go  places  and  do  pleasant  things," 
said  Margaret,  her  breast  rising  and  falling 
stormily;  "but  nothing  ever  happens  to  us  ex 
cept  broken  arms,  and  bills,  and  boilers  bursting, 
and  chicken-pox  !  It's  drudge,  drudge,  drudge, 
from  morning  until  night ! " 

With  a  sudden  little  gesture  of  abandonment 
she  found  a  handkerchief  in  her  belt,  and  pressed 
it,  still  folded,  against  her  eyes.  Mrs.  Porter 
watched  her  solicitously,  but  silently.  Outside 
the  schoolroom  windows  the  wind  battered 
furiously,  and  rain  slapped  steadily  against  the 
panes. 

"Well !"  the  girl  said  resolutely  and  suddenly. 
And  after  a  moment  she  added  frankly,  UI  think 
the  real  trouble  to-day,  Emily,  is  that  we  just 
heard  of  Betty  Forsythe's  engagement  —  she 
was  my  brother's  girl,  you  know ;  he  's  admired 
her  ever  since  she  got  into  High  School,  and  of 
course  Bruce  is  going  to  feel  awfully  bad." 

"Betty  engaged?  Who  to?"  Mrs.  Porter 
was  interested. 


Mother  7 

"To  that  man  —  boy,  rather,  he's  only  twenty- 
one  —  who's  been  visiting  the  Redmans,"  Mar 
garet  said.  "  She's  only  known  him  two  weeks." 
"  Gracious  !  And  she's  only  eighteen  — " 
"Not  quite  eighteen.  She  and  my  sister, 
Julie,  were  in  my  first  class  four  years  ago; 
they're  the  same  age,"  Margaret  said.  "She 
came  fluttering  over  to  tell  us  last  night,  wearing 
a  diamond  the  size  of  a  marble  !  Of  course,"  — 
Margaret  was  loyal,  —  "I  don't  think  there's  a 
jealous  bone  in  Julie's  body;  still,  it's  pretty 
hard  !  Here's  Julie  plugging  away  to  get  through 
the  Normal  School,  so  that  she  can  teach  all  the 
rest  of  her  life,  and  Betty's  been  to  California, 
and  been  to  Europe,  and  now  is  going  to  marry 
a  rich  New  York  man  !  Betty's  the  only  child, 
you  know,  so,  of  course,  she  has  everything.  It 
seems  so  unfair,  for  Mr.  Forsythe's  salary  is 
exactly  what  Dad's  is ;  yet  they  can  travel,  and 
keep  two  maids,  and  entertain  all  the  time ! 
And  as  for  family,  why,  Mother's  family  is  one 
of  the  finest  in  the  country,  and  Dad  's  had  two 
uncles  who  were  judges  —  and  what  were  the 
Forsythes  !  However,"  —  Margaret  dried  her 


8  Mother 

eyes  and  put  away  her  handkerchief,  —  "how 
ever,  it's  for  Bruce  I  mind  most !" 

"Bruce  is  only  three  years  older  than  you 
are,  twenty-three  or  four/'  Mrs.  Porter  smiled. 

"Yes,  but  he's  not  the  kind  that  forgets!" 
Margaret's  flush  was  a  little  resentful.  "Oh, 
of  course,  you  can  laugh,  Emily.  I  know  that 
there  are  plenty  of  people  who  don't  mind  drag 
ging  along  day  after  day,  working  and  eating 
and  sleeping  —  but  I'm  not  that  kind!"  she 
went  on  moodily.  "I  used  to  hope  that  things 
would  be  different;  it  makes  me  sick  to  think 
how  brave  I  was;  but  now  here's  Ju  coming 
along,  and  Ted  growing  up,  and  Bruce's  girl 
throwing  him  over  —  it's  all  so  unfair!  I  look 
at  the  Cutter  girls,  nearly  fifty,  and  running 
the  post-office  for  thirty  years,  and  Mary  Page 
in  the  Library,  and  the  Norberrys  painting  pil 
lows,  —  and  I  could  scream  !" 

"Things  will  take  a  turn  for  the  better  some 
day,  Margaret,"  said  the  other  woman,  sooth 
ingly ;  "and  as  time  goes  on  you'll  find  your 
self  getting  more  and  more  pleasure  out  of 
your  work,  as  I  do.  Why,  I've  never  been  so 


Mother  9 

securely  happy  in  my  life  as  I  am  now.  You'll 
feel  differently  some  day." 

" Maybe,"  Margaret  assented  unenthusias 
tically.  There  was  a  pause.  Perhaps  the  girl 
was  thinking  that  to  teach  school,  live  in  a  plain 
little  cottage  on  the  unfashionable  Bridge  Road, 
take  two  roomers,  and  cook  and  sew  and  plan  for 
Tom  and  little  Emily,  as  Mrs.  Porter  did,  was 
not  quite  an  ideal  existence. 

"You're  an  angel,  anyway,  Emily,"  said  she, 
affectionately,  a  little  shamefacedly.  "  Don't 
mind  my  growling.  I  don't  do  it  very  often. 
But  I  look  about  at  other  people,  and  then  real 
ize  how  my  mother  's  slaved  for  twenty  years 
and  how  my  father  's  been  tied  down,  and  I've 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  while  there  may  have 
been  a  time  when  a  woman  could  keep  a  house, 
tend  a  garden,  sew  and  spin  and  raise  twelve 
children,  things  are  different  now ;  life  is  more 
complicated.  You  owe  your  husband  something, 
you  owe  yourself  something.  I  want  to  get  on, 
\  ito  study  and  travel,  to  be  a  companion  to  my 
msband.  I  don't  want  to  be  a  mere  upper 

jrvant!" 


io  Mother 

"No,  of  course  not/'  assented  Mrs.  Porter, 
vaguely,  soothingly. 

"Well,  if  we  are  going  to  stay  here,  I'll  light 
the  stove,"  Margaret  said  after  a  pause,  "  B-r-r-r  ! 
this  room  gets  cold  with  the  windows  open  !  I 
wonder  why  Kelly  doesn't  bring  us  more  wood  ?  " 

"I  guess  — I'll  stay!"  Mrs.  Porter  said  un 
certainly,  following  her  to  the  big  book  closet 
off  the  schoolroom,  where  a  little  gas  stove  and 
a  small  china  closet  occupied  one  wide  shelf. 
The  water  for  the  tea  and  bouillon  was  put  over 
the  flame  in  a  tiny  enamelled  saucepan ;  they 
set  forth  on  a  fringed  napkin  crackers  and  sugar 
and  spoons. 

At  this  point,  a  small  girl  of  eleven  with  a 
brilliant,  tawny  head,  and  a  wide  and  toothless 
smile,  opened  the  door  cautiously,  and  said, 
blinking  rapidly  with  excitement,  — 

"Mark,  Mother  theth  pleath  may  thee  come 
in?" 

This  was  Rebecca,  one  of  Margaret's  five 
younger  brothers  and  sisters,  and  a  pupil  of  the 
school  herself.  Margaret  smiled  at  the  eager 
little  face. 


Mother  n 

"Hello,  darling  !  Is  Mother  here  ?  Certainly 
she  can  !  I  believe,"  —  she  said,  turning,  sud 
denly  radiant,  to  Mrs.  Porter,  —  "Til  just  bet 
you  she  's  brought  us  some  lunch  ! " 

"Thee  brought  uth  our  luncheth  —  eggth 
and  thpith  caketh  and  everything ! "  exulted 
Rebecca,  vanishing,  and  a  moment  later  Mrs. 
Paget  appeared. 

She  was  a  tall  woman,  slender  but  large  of 
build,  and  showing,  under  a  shabby  raincoat  and 
well  pinned-up  skirt,  the  gracious  generous  lines 
of  shoulders  and  hips,  the  deep-bosomed  erect 
figure  that  is  rarely  seen  except  in  old  daguerreo 
types,  or  the  ideal  of  some  artist  two  generations 
ago.  The  storm  to-day  had  blown  an  unusual 
color  into  her  thin  cheeks,  her  bright,  deep  eyes 
were  like  Margaret's,  but  the  hair  that  once  had 
shown  an  equally  golden  lustre  was  dull  and 
smooth  now,  and  touched  with  gray.  She  came 
in  smiling,  and  a  little  breathless. 

"Mother,  you  didn't  come  out  in  all  this  rain 
just  to  bring  us  our  lunches!"  Margaret  pro 
tested,  kissing  the  cold,  fresh  face. 

"Well,  look  at  the  lunch  you  silly  girls  were 


12  Mother 

going  to  eat !"  Mrs.  Paget  protested  in  turn,  in 
a  voice  rich  with  amusement.  "I  love  to  walk 
in  the  rain,  Mark ;  I  used  to  love  it  when  I  was  a 
girl.  Tom  and  Sister  are  at  our  house,  Mrs. 
Potter,  playing  with  Duncan  and  Baby.  I'll 
keep  them  until  after  school,  then  I'll  send 
them  over  to  walk  home  with  you." 

"Oh,  you  are  an  angel !"  said  the  younger 
mother,  gratefully.  And  "You  are  an  angel, 
Mother!'7  Margaret  echoed,  as  Mrs.  Paget 
opened  a  shabby  suitcase,  and  took  from  it 
a  large  jar  of  hot  rich  soup,  a  little  blue  bowl 
of  stuffed  eggs,  half  a  fragrant  whole-wheat 
loaf  in  a  white  napkin,  a  little  glass  full  of 
sweet  butter,  and  some  of  the  spice  cakes  to 
which  Rebecca  had  already  enthusiastically 
alluded. 

"There  !"  said  she,  pleased  with  their  delight, 
"now  take  your  time,  you've  got  three-quarters 
of  an  hour.  Julie  devilled  the  eggs,  and  the 
sweet-butter  man  happened  to  come  just  as  I 
was  starting." 

"Delicious  !  —  You've  saved  our  lives,"  Mar 
garet  said,  busy  with  cups  and  spoons.  "You'll 


Mother  13 

stay,  Mother  ? "  she  broke  off  suddenly,  as  Mrs. 
Paget  closed  the  suitcase. 

"I  can't,  dear  !  I  must  go  back  to  the  chil 
dren,"  her  mother  said  cheerfully.  No  coaxing 
proving  of  any  avail,  Margaret  went  with  her  to 
the  top  of  the  hall  stairs. 

" What's  my  girl  worrying  about?"  Mrs. 
Paget  asked,  with  a  keen  glance  at  Margaret's 
face. 

"Oh,  nothing!"  Margaret  used  both  hands 
to  button  the  top  button  of  her  mother's  coat. 
"I  was  hungry  and  cold,  and  I  didn't  want  to 
walk  home  in  the  rain !"  she  confessed,  raising 
her  eyes  to  the  eyes  so  near  her  own. 

"Well,  go  back  to  your  lunch,"  Mrs.  Paget 
urged,  after  a  brief  pause,  not  quite  satisfied 
with  the  explanation.  Margaret  kissed  her 
again,  watched  her  descend  the  stairs,  and  lean 
ing  over  the  banister  called  down  to  her  softly : 

"Don't  worry  about  me,  Mother!" 

"No  —  no  —  no!"  her  mother  called  back 
brightly.  Indeed,  Margaret  reflected,  going 
back  to  the  much-cheered  Emily,  it  was  not  in 
her  nature  to  worry. 


14  Mother 

No,  Mother  never  worried,  or  if  she  did,  no 
body  ever  knew  it.  Care,  fatigue,  responsibility, 
hard  long  years  of  busy  days  and  broken  nights 
had  left  their  mark  on  her  face ;  the  old  beauty 
that  had  been  hers  was  chiselled  to  a  mere  pure 
outline  now ;  but  there  was  a  contagious  serenity 
in  Mrs.  Paget's  smile,  a  clear  steadiness  in  her 
calm  eyes,  and  her  forehead,  beneath  an  unfash- 
ionably  plain  sweep  of  hair,  was  untroubled  and 
smooth. 

The  children's  mother  was  a  simple  woman; 
so  absorbed  in  the  hourly  problems  attendant 
upon  the  housing  and  feeding  of  her  husband 
and  family  that  her  own  personal  ambitions,  if 
she  had  any,  were  quite  lost  sight  of,  and  the 
actual  outlines  of  her  character  were  forgotten 
by  every  one,  herself  included.  If  her  busy  day 
marched  successfully  to  nightfall;  if  darkness 
found  her  husband  reading  in  his  big  chair,  the 
younger  children  sprawled  safe  and  asleep  in 
the  shabby  nursery,  the  older  ones  contented 
with  books  or  games,  the  clothes  sprinkled,  the 
bread  set,  the  kitchen  dark  and  clean;  Mrs. 
Paget  asked  no  more  of  life.  She  would  sit, 


Mother  15 

her  overflowing  work-basket  beside  her,  looking 
from  one  absorbed  face  to  another,  thinking 
perhaps  of  Julie's  new  school  dress,  of  Ted's 
impending  siege  with  the  dentist,  or  of  the  old 
bureau  up  attic  that  might  be  mended  for 
Bruce's  room.  "  Thank  God  we  have  all  warm 
beds,"  she  would  say,  when  they  all  went  up 
stairs,  yawning  and  chilly. 

-x  She  had  married,  at  twenty,  the  man  she  loved, 
and  had  found  him  better  than  her  dreams  in 
many  ways,  and  perhaps  disappointing  in  some 
few  others,  but  "the  best  man  in  the  world"  for 
all  that?  That  for  more  than  twenty  years  he 
had  been  satisfied  to  stand  for  nine  hours  daily 
behind  one  dingy  desk,  and  to  carry  home  to 
her  his  unopened  salary  envelope  twice  a  month, 
she  found  only  admirable.  Daddy  was  "steady," 
he  was  "so  gentle  with  the  children,"  he  was 
"the  easiest  man  in  the  world  to  cook  for." 
"Bless  his  heart,  no  woman  ever  had  less  to 
worry  over  in  her  husband!"  she  would  say, 
looking  from  her  kitchen  window  to  the  garden 
where  he  trained  the  pea-vines,  with  the  chil 
dren's  yellow  heads  bobbing  about  him.  She 


1 6  Mother 

never  analyzed  his  character,  much  less  criti 
cised  him.  Good  and  bad,  he  was  taken  for 
granted;  she  was  much  more  lenient  to  him 
than  to  any  of  the  children.  She  welcomed 
the  fast-coming  babies  as  gifts  from  God,  mar 
velled  over  their  tiny  perfectness,  dreamed  over 
the  soft  relaxed  little  forms  with  a  heart  almost 
too  full  for  prayer.  She  was,  in  a  word,  old- 
fashioned,  hopelessly  out  of  the  modern  current 
of  thoughts  and  events.  She  secretly  regarded 
her  children  as  marvellous,  even  white  she 
laughed  down  their  youthful  conceit  and  pun 
ished  their  naughtiness. 

Thinking  a  little  of  all  these  things,  as  a  girl 
with  her  own  wifehood  and  motherhood  all  before 
her  does  think,  Margaret  went  back  to  her  hot 
luncheon.  One  o'clock  found  her  at  her  desk, 
refreshed  in  spirit  by  her  little  outburst,  and 
much  fortified  in  body.  The  room  was  well 
aired,  and  a  reinforced  fire  roared  in  the  little 
stove.  One  of  the  children  had  brought  her  a 
spray  of  pine,  and  the  spicy  fragrance  of  it  re 
minded  her  that  Christmas  and  the  Christmas 


Mother  17 

vacation  were  near;  her  mind  was  pleasantly 
busy  with  anticipation  of  the  play  that  the  Pagets 
always  wrote  and  performed  some  time  dur 
ing  the  holidays,  and  with  the  New  Year's, 
costume  dance  at  the  Hall,  and  a  dozen  lesser 
festivities. 

Suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  a  droning  spelling 
lesson,  there  was  a  jarring  interruption.  From 
the  world  outside  came  a  child's  shrill  screaming, 
which  was  instantly  drowned  in  a  chorus  of 
frightened  voices,  and  in  the  schoolroom  below 
her  own  Margaret  heard  a  thundering  rush  of 
feet,  and  answering  screams.  With  a  suffocat 
ing  terror  at  her  heart  she  ran  to  the  window, 
followed  by  every  child  in  the  room. 

The  rain  had  stopped  now,  and  the  sky  showed 
a  pale,  cold,  yellow  light  low  in  the  west.  At 
the  schoolhouse  gate  an  immense  limousine  car 
had  come  to  a  stop.  The  driver,  his  face  alone 
visible  between  a  great  leather  coat  and  visored 
1  ather  cap,  was  talking  unheard  above  the  din. 
A  tall  woman,  completely  enveloped  in  sealskins, 
had  evidently  jumped  from  the  limousine,  and 
now  held  in  her  arms  what  made  Margaret's 
c 


i8  Mother 

heart  turn  sick  and  cold,  the  limp  figure  of  a 
small  girl. 

About  these  central  figures  there  surged  the 
terrified  crying  small  children  of  the  just-dis 
missed  primer  class,  and  in  the  half  moment 
that  Margaret  watched,  Mrs.  Porter,  white  and 
shaking,  and  another  teacher,  Ethel  Elliot,  an 
always  excitable  girl,  who  was  now  sobbing  and 
chattering  hysterically,  ran  out  from  the  school, 
each  followed  by  her  own  class  of  crowding  and 
excited  boys  and  girls. 

With  one  horrified  exclamation,  Margaret  ran 
downstairs,  and  out  to  the  gate.  Mrs.  Porter 
caught  at  her  arm  as  she  passed  her  in  the 
path. 

"Oh,  my  God,  Margaret!  It's  poor  little 
Dorothy  Scott!"  she  said.  "They've  killed 
her.  The  car  went  completely  over  her!" 

"Oh,  Margaret,  don't  go  near,  oh,  how  can 
you!"  screamed  Miss  Elliot.  "Oh,  and  she's 
all  they  have!  Who'll  tell  her  mother!" 

With  astonishing  ease,  for  the  children  gladly 
recognized  authority,  Margaret  pushed  through 
the  group  to  the  motor-car. 


Mother  19 

"Stop  screaming  —  stop  that  shouting  at 
once  —  keep  still,  every  one  of  you!"  she  said 
angrily,  shaking  various  shoulders  as  she  went 
with  such  good  effect  that  the  voice  of  the  woman 
in  sealskins  could  be  heard  by  the  time  Mar 
garet  reached  her. 

"I  don't  think  she's  badly  hurt!"  said  this 
woman,  nervously  and  eagerly.  She  was  evi 
dently  badly  shaken,  and  was  very  white.  "Do 
quiet  them,  can't  you?"  she  said,  with  a  sort  of 
apprehensive  impatience.  "Can't  we  take  her 
somewhere,  and  get  a  doctor  ?  Can't  we  get  out 
of  this?" 

Margaret  took  the  child  in  her  own  arms. 
Little  Dorothy  roared  afresh,  but  to  Margaret's 
unspeakable  relief  she  twisted  about  and  locked 
her  arms  tightly  about  the  loved  teacher's  neck. 
The  other  woman  watched  them  anxiously. 

"That  blood  on  her  frock's  just  nosebleed," 
she  said;  "but  I  think  the  car  went  over  her! 
I  assure  you  we  were  running  very  slowly.  How 
it  happened  —  !  But  I  don't  think  she  was 
struck." 

"Nosebleed  !"  Margaret  echoed,  with  a  great 


20  Mother 

breath.  "No,"  she  said  quietly,  over  the  agi 
tated  little  head;  "I  don't  think  she's  much 
hurt.  We'll  take  her  in.  Now,  look  here,  chil 
dren,"  she  added  loudly  to  the  assembled  pupils 
of  the  Weston  Grammar  School,  whom  mere 
curiosity  had  somewhat  quieted,  "I  want  every 
one  of  you  children  to  go  back  to  your  school 
rooms  ;  do  you  understand  ?  Dorothy  's  had  a 
bad  scare,  but  she's  got  no  bones  broken,  and 
we're  going  to  have  a  doctor  see  that  she's  all 
right.  I  want  you  to  see  how  quiet  you  can  be. 
Mrs.  Porter,  may  my  class  go  into  your  room  a 
little  while?" 

"Certainly,"  said  Mrs.  Porter,  eager  to  coop 
erate,  and  much  relieved  to  have  her  share  of  the 
episode  take  this  form.  "Form  lines,  children," 
she  added  calmly. 

"Ted,"  said  Margaret  to  her  own  small  brother, 
who  was  one  of  Mrs.  Porter's  pupils,  and  who  had 
edged  closer  to  her  than  any  boy  unprivileged  by 
relationship  dared,  "will  you  go  down  the  street, 
and  ask  old  Doctor  Potts  to  come  here?  And 
then  go  tell  Dorothy's  mother  that  Dorothy  has 
had  a  little  bump,  and  that  Miss  Paget  says 


Mother  21 

she's  all  right,  but  that  she'd  like  her  mother  to 
come  for  her." 

"Sure  I  will,  Mark!"  Theodore  responded 
enthusiastically,  departing  on  a  run. 

"Mama!"  sobbed  the  little  sufferer  at  this 
point,  hearing  a  familiar  word. 

"  Yes,  darling,  you  want  Mama,  don't 
you?"  Margaret  said  soothingly,  as  she 
started  with  her  burden  up  the  schoolhouse 
steps.  "What  were  you  doing,  Dorothy,"  she 
went  on  pleasantly,  "to  get  under  that  big 
car?" 

"I  dropped  my  ball!"  wailed  the  small  girl, 
her  tears  beginning  afresh,  "and  it  rolled  and 
rolled.  And  I  didn't  see  the  automobile,  and 
I  didn't  see  it !  And  I  fell  down  and  b-b-bumped 
my  nose!" 

"Well,  I  should  think  you  did!"  Margaret 
said,  laughing.  "Mother  won't  know  you  at 
all  with  such  a  muddy  face  and  such  a  muddy 
apron  ! " 

Dorothy  laughed  shakily  at  this,  and  several 
other  little  girls,  passing  in  orderly  file,  laughed 
heartily.  Margaret  crossed  the  lines  of  children 


22  Mother 

to  the  room  where  they  played  and  ate  their 
lunches  on  wet  days.  She  shut  herself  in  with 
the  child  and  the  fur-clad  lady. 

"Now  you're  all  right !"  said  Margaret,  gayly. 
And  Dorothy  was  presently  comfortable  in  a 
big  chair,  wrapped  in  a  rug  from  the  motor-car, 
with  her  face  washed,  and  her  head  dropped 
languidly  back  against  her  chair,  as  became 
an  interesting  invalid.  The  Irish  janitor  was 
facetious  as  he  replenished  the  fire,  and  made 
her  laugh  again.  Margaret  gave  her  a  numeri 
cal  chart  to  play  with,  and  saw  with  satisfac 
tion  that  the  little  head  was  bent  interestedly 
over  it. 

Quiet  fell  upon  the  school ;  the  muffled  sound 
of  lessons  recited  in  concert  presently  reached 
them.  Theodore  returned,  reporting  that  the 
doctor  would  come  as  soon  as  he  could  and  that 
Dorothy's  mother  was  away  at  a  card-party,  but 
that  Dorothy's  "girl"  would  come  for  her  as 
soon  as  the  bread  was  out  of  the  oven.  There 
was  nothing  to  do  but  wait. 

"It  seems  a  miracle,"  said  the  strange  lady, 
in  a  low  tone,  when  she  and  Margaret  were 


Mother  23 

alone  again  with  the  child.  "But  I  don't  be 
lieve  she  was  scratched!" 

"I  don't  think  so,"  Margaret  agreed. 
"Mother  says  no  child  who  can  cry  is  very 
badly  hurt." 

"They  made  such  a  horrible  noise,"  said  the 
other,  sighing  wearily.  She  passed  a  white 
hand,  with  one  or  two  blazing  great  stones  upon 
it,  across  her  forehead.  Margaret  had  leisure 
now  to  notice  that  by  all  signs  this  was  a  very 
great  lady  indeed.  The  quality  of  her  furs,  the 
glimpse  of  her  gown  that  the  loosened  coat 
showed,  her  rings,  and  most  of  all  the  tones  of 
her  voice,  the  authority  of  her  manner,  the  well- 
groomed  hair  and  skin  and  hands,  all  marked 
the  thoroughbred. 

"Do  you  know  that  you  managed  that  situ 
ation  very  cleverly  just  now?"  said  the  lady, 
with  a  keen  glance  that  made  Margaret  color. 
"One  has  such  a  dread  of  the  crowd,  just  public 
sentiment,  you  know.  Some  officious  bystander 
calls  the  police,  they  crowd  against  your  driver, 
perhaps  a  brick  gets  thrown.  We  had  an 
experience  in  England  once — "  She  paused, 


24  Mother 

then  interrupted  herself.    "But  I  don't  know 
your  name?"  she  said  brightly. 

Margaret  supplied  it,  was  led  to  talk  a  little 
of  her  own  people. 

"Seven  of  you,  eh?  Seven's  too  many,"  said 
the  visitor,  with  the  assurance  that  Margaret 
was  to  learn  characterized  her.  "I've  two  my 
self,  two  girls,"  she  went  on.  "I  wanted  a  boy, 
but  they're  nice  girls.  And  you've  six  brothers 
and  sisters  ?  Are  they  all  as  handsome  as  you 
and  this  Teddy  of  yours?  And  why  do  you 
like  teaching?" 

"Why  do  I  like  it?"  Margaret  said,  enjoying 
these  confidences  and  the  unusual  experience 
of  sitting  idle  in  mid-afternoon.  "I  don't,  I  hate 
it." 

"I  see.  But  then  why  don't  you  come  down 
to  New  York,  and  do  something  else  ?"  the  other 
woman  asked. 

"I'm  needed  at  home,  and  I  don't  know  any 
one  there,"  Margaret  said  simply. 

"I  see,"  the  lady  said  again  thoughtfully. 
There  was  a  pause.  Then  the  same  speaker  said 
reminiscently,  "I  taught  school  once  for  three 


Mother  25 

months  when  I  was  a  girl,  to  show  my  father  I 
could  support  myself." 

"I've  taught  for  four  years/'  Margaret 
said. 

"Well,  if  you  ever  want  to  try  something  else, 
—  there  are  such  lots  of  fascinating  things  a  girl 
can  do  now !  —  be  sure  you  come  and  see  me 
about  it,"  the  stranger  said.  "I  am  Mrs.  Carr- 
Boldt,  of  New  York." 

Margaret's  amazed  eyes  flashed  to  Mrs.  Carr- 
Boldt's  face;  her  cheeks  crimsoned. 

"Mrs.  Carr-Boldt!"  she  echoed  blankly. 

"Why  not?"  smiled  the  lady,  not  at  all  dis 
pleased. 

"Why,"  stammered  Margaret,  laughing  and 
rosy,  "why,  nothing  —  only  I  never  dreamed 
who  you  were  !"  she  finished,  a  little  confused. 

And  indeed  it  never  afterward  seemed  to  her 
anything  short  of  a  miracle  that  brought  the 
New  York  society  woman  —  famed  on  two  con 
tinents  and  from  ocean  to  ocean  for  her  jewels, 
her  entertainments,  her  gowns,  her  establish 
ments —  into  a  Weston  schoolroom,  and  into 
Margaret  Paget's  life. 


26  Mother 

"I  was  on  my  way  to  New  York  now,"  said 
Mrs.  Carr-Boldt. 

"I  don't  see  why  you  should  be  delayed," 
Margaret  said,  glad  to  be  able  to  speak  normally, 
with  such  a  fast-beating  and  pleasantly  excited 
heart.  "I'm  sure  Dorothy's  all  right." 

"Oh,  I'd  rather  wait.  I  like  my  company," 
said  the  other.  And  Margaret  decided  in  that 
instant  that  there  never  was  a  more  deservedly 
admired  and  copied  and  quoted  woman. 

Presently  their  chat  was  interrupted  by  the 
tramp  of  the  departing  school  children ;  the  other 
teachers  peeped  in,  were  reassured,  and  went 
their  ways.  Then  came  the  doctor,  to  pronounce 
the  entirely  cheerful  Dorothy  unhurt,  and  to 
bestow  upon  her  some  hoarhound  drops.  Mrs. 
Carr-Boldt  settled  at  once  with  the  doctor,  and 
when  Margaret  saw  the  size  of  the  bill  that  was 
pressed  into  his  hand,  she  realized  that  she  had 
done  her  old  friend  a  good  turn. 

"Use  it  up  on  your  poor  people,"  said  Mrs. 
Carr-Boldt,  to  his  protestations;  and  when  he 
had  gone,  and  Dorothy's  "girl"  appeared,  she 
tipped  that  worthy  and  amazed  Teuton,  and 


Mother  27 

after  promising  Dorothy  a  big  doll  from  a  New 
York  shop,  sent  the  child  and  maid  home  in  the 
motor-car. 

"I  hope  this  hasn't  upset  your  plans,"  Mar 
garet  said,  as  they  stood  waiting  in  the  doorway. 
It  was  nearly  five  o'clock,  the  school  was  empty 
and  silent. 

"No,  not  exactly.  I  had  hoped  to  get  home 
for  dinner.  But  I  think  I'll  get  Woolcock  to 
take  :ne  back  to  Dayton;  I've  some  very  dear 
frieuds  there  who'll  give  me  a  cup  of  tea.  Then 
I'll  come  back  this  way  and  get  home,  by  ten,  I 
should  think,  for  a  late  supper."  Then,  as  the 
limousine  appeared,  Mrs.  Carr-Boldt  took  both 
Margaret's  hands  in  hers,  and  said,  "And  now 
good-bye,  my  dear  girl.  I've  got  your  address, 
and  I'm  going  to  send  you  something  pretty  to 
remember  me  by.  You  saved  me  from  I  don't 
know  what  annoyance  and  publicity.  And 
don't  forget  that  when  you  come  to  New  York 
I'm  gcmg  to  help  you  meet  the  people  you  want 
to,  and  give  you  a  start  if  I  can.  You're  far 
too  clever  and  good-looking  to  waste  your  life 
down  here.  Good-bye  ! " 


28  Mother 

"Good-bye !"  Margaret  said,  her  cheeks  bril 
liant,  her  head  awhirl. 

She  stood  unmindful  of  the  chilly  evening 
air,  watching  the  great  motor-car  wheel  and  slip 
into  the  gloom.  The  rain  was  over ;  a  dying 
wind  moaned  mysteriously  through  the  dusk. 
Margaret  went  slowly  upstairs,  pinned  on  her 
hat,  buttoned  her  long  coat  snugly  about  her. 
She  locked  the  schoolroom  door,  and,  turning  the 
corner,  plunged  her  hands  into  her  pocket;*,  and 
faced  the  wind  bravely.  Deepening  darkness 
and  coldness  were  about  her,  but  she  felt  sur 
rounded  by  the  warmth  and  brightness  of  her 
dreams.  She  saw  the  brilliant  streets  of  a  big 
city,  the  carriages  and  motor-cars  coming  and 
going,  the  idle,  lovely  women  in  their  sumptuous 
gowns  and  hats.  These  things  were  real,  near 
—  almost  attainable  —  to-night. 

"Mrs.  Carr-Boldt!"  Margaret  said,  "the 
darling  !  I  wonder  if  I'll  ever  see  her  again !" 


CHAPTER  H 

JIFE  in  the  shabby,  commonplace 
house  that  sheltered  the  Paget 
family  sometimes  really  did  seem 
to  proceed,  as  Margaret  had  sug 
gested,  in  a  long  chain  of  vio 
lent  shocks,  narrow  escapes,  and  closely 
averted  catastrophes.  No  sooner  was  Dun 
can's  rash  pronounced  not  to  be  scarlet 
fever  than  Robert  swallowed  a  penny,  or  Beck 
set  fire  to  the  dining-room  waste-basket,  or  Dad 
foresaw  the  immediate  failure  of  the  Weston 
Home  Savings  Bank,  and  the  inevitable  loss  of 
his  position  there.  Sometimes  there  was  a  pa 
ternal  explosion  because  Bruce  liked  to  murmur 
vaguely  of  "  dandy  chances  in  Manila,"  or  be 
cause  Julie,  pretty,  excitable,  and  sixteen,  had 
an  occasional  dose  of  stage  fever,  and  would 
stammer  desperately  between  convulsive  sobs 
29 


30  Mother 

that  she  wasn't  half  as  much  afraid  of  "the  ter 
rible  temptations  of  the  life"  as  she  was  afraid 
of  dying  a  poky  old  maid  in  Weston.  In  short, 
the  home  was  crowded,  the  Pagets  were  poor,  and 
every  one  of  the  seven  possessed  a  spirited  and 
distinct  entity.  All  the  mother's  effort  could 
not  keep  them  always  contented.  Growing 
ambitions  made  the  Weston  horizon  seem  narrow 
and  mean,  and  the  young  eyes  that  could  not 
see  beyond  to-morrow  were  often  wet  with  re 
bellious  tears. 

Through  it  all  they  loved  each  other;  some 
times  whole  weeks  went  by  in  utter  harmony; 
the  children  contented  over  "Parchesi  "  on  the 
hearthrug  in  the  winter  evenings,  Julie  singing 
in  the  morning  sunlight,  as  she  filled  the  vases 
from  the  shabby  marguerite  bushes  on  the  lawn. 
But  there  were  other  times  when  to  the  dreamy, 
studious  Margaret  the  home  circle  seemed  all 
discord,  all  ugly  dingyness  and  threadbareness ; 
the  struggle  for  ease  and  beauty  and  refinement 
seemed  hopeless  and  overwhelming.  In  these 
times  she  would  find  herself  staring  thoughtfully 
at  her  mother's  face,  bent  over  the  mending 


Mother  31 

basket,  or  her  eyes  would  leave  the  chessboard 
that  held  her  father's  attention  so  closely,  and 
move  from  his  bald  spot,  with  its  encircling 
crown  of  fluffy  gray,  to  his  rosy  face,  with  its 
kind,  intent  blue  eyes  and  the  little  lines  about 
his  mouth  that  his  moustache  didn't  hide,  — 
with  a  half-formed  question  in  her  heart.  What 
hadn't  they  done,  these  dearest  people,  to  be 
always  struggling,  always  tired,  always  "  behind 
the  game "  ?  Why  should  they  be  eternally 
harassed  by  plumbers'  bills,  and  dentists'  bills, 
and  shoes  that  would  wear  out,  and  school-books 
that  must  be  bought  ?  Why  weren't  they  hold 
ing  their  place  in  Weston  society,  the  place  to 
which  they  were  entitled  by  right  of  the  Quincy 
grandfather,  and  the  uncles  who  were  judges  ? 

And  in  answer  Margaret  came  despondently 
to  the  decision,  "If  you  have  children,  you  never 
have  anything  else  !"  How  could  Mother  keep 
up  with  her  friends,  when  for  some  fifteen  years 
she  had  been  far  too  busy  to  put  on  a  dainty 
gown  in  the  afternoon,  and  serve  a  hospitable 
cup  of  tea  on  the  east  porch?  Mother  was 
buttering  bread  for  supper,  then ;  opening  little 


32  Mother 

beds  and  laying  out  little  nightgowns,  starting 
Ted  off  for  the  milk,  washing  small  hands  and 
faces,  soothing  bumps  and  binding  cuts,  admon 
ishing,  praising,  directing.  Mother  was  only 
too  glad  to  sink  wearily  into  her  rocker  after 
dinner,  and,  after  a  few  spirited  visits  to  the  ram 
pant  nursery  upstairs,  express  the  hope  that 
nobody  would  come  in  to-night.  Gradually 
the  friends  dropped  away,  and  the  social  life  of 
Weston  flowed  smoothly  on  without  the  Pagets. 
But  when  Margaret  began  to  grow  up,  she 
grasped  the  situation  with  all  the  keenness  of 
a  restless  and  ambitious  nature.  Weston,  de 
tested  Weston,  it  must  apparently  be.  Very 
well,  she  would  make  the  best  of  Weston.  Mar 
garet  called  on  her  mother's  old  friends ;  she  was 
tireless  in  charming  little  attentions.  Her  own 
first  dances  had  not  been  successful;  she  arid 
Bruce  were  not  good  dancers,  Margaret  had  not 
been  satisfied  with  her  gowns,  they  both  felt  out 
of  place.  When  Julie's  dancing  days  came  along, 
Margaret  saw  to  it  that  everything  was  made 
much  easier.  She  planned  social  evenings  at 
home,  and  exhausted  herself  preparing  for  them, 


Mother  33 

that  Julie  might  know  the  "right  people. "  To 
her  mother  all  people  were  alike,  if  they  were 
kind  and  not  vulgar ;  Margaret  felt  very  differ 
ently.  It  was  a  matter  of  the  greatest  satisfac 
tion  to  her  when  Julie  blossomed  into  a  fluffy- 
haired  butterfly,  tremendously  in  demand,  in 
spite  of  much-cleaned  slippers  and  often-pressed 
frocks.  Margaret  arranged  Christmas  theatri 
cals,  May  picnics,  Fourth  of  July  gatherings. 
She  never  failed  Bruce  when  this  dearest  brother 
wanted  her  company;  she  was,  as  Mrs.  Paget 
told  her  over  and  over,  "the  sweetest  daughter 
any  woman  ever  had."  But  deep  in  her  heart 
she  knew  moods  of  bitter  distaste  and  restless 
ness.  The  struggle  did  not  seem  worth  the 
making ;  the  odds  against  her  seemed  too  great. 

Still  dreaming  in  the  winter  dark,  she  went 
through  the  home  gate,  and  up  the  porch  steps 
of  a  roomy,  cheap  house  that  had  been  built  in 
the  era  of  scalloped  and  pointed  shingles,  of 
colored  glass  embellishments  around  the  window- 
panes,  of  perforated  scroll  work  and  wooden 
railings  in  Grecian  designs.  A  mass  of  wet  ovei  •• 

D 


34  Mother 

shoes  lay  on  the  porch,  and  two  or  three  of  the 
weather-stained  porch  rockers  swayed  under  the 
weight  of  spread  wet  raincoats.  Two  opened 
umbrellas  wheeled  in  the  current  of  air  that 
came  around  the  house;  the  porch  ran  water. 
While  Margaret  was  adding  her  own  rainy-day 
equipment  to  the  others,  a  golden  brown  setter, 
one  ecstatic  wriggle  from  nose  to  tail,  flashed  into 
view,  and  came  fawning  to  her  feet. 

" Hello,  Bran!"  Margaret  said,  propping 
herself  against  the  house  with  one  hand,  while 
she  pulled  at  a  tight  overshoe.  "Hello,  old 
fellow!  Well,  did  they  lock  him  out?" 

She  let  herself  and  a  freezing  gust  of  air  into 
the  dark  hall,  groping  to  the  hat-rack  for  matches. 
While  she  was  lighting  the  gas,  a  very  pretty 
girl  of  sixteen,  with  crimson  cheeks  and  tumbled 
soft  dark  hair,  came  to  the  dining-room  door. 
This  was  her  sister  Julie,  Margaret's  roommate 
and  warmest  admirer,  and  for  the  last  year  or 
two  her  inseparable  companion.  Julie  had  her 
finger  in  a  book,  but  now  she  closed  it,  and  said 
affectionately  between  her  yawns:  "Corne  in 
here,  darling  !  You  must  be  dead." 


Mother  35 

"Don't  let  Bran  in,"  cried  some  one  from  up 
stairs. 

"He  is  in,  Mother!"  Margaret  called  back, 
and  Rebecca  and  the  three  small  boys  —  Theo 
dore,  the  four-year-old  baby,  Robert,  and  Dun 
can,  a  grave  little  lad  of  seven  —  all  rushed 
out  of  the  dining-room  together,  shouting,  as 
they  fell  on  the  delighted  dog :  — 

"Aw,  leave  him  in  !  Aw,  leave  the  poor  little 
feller  in !  Come  on,  Bran,  come  on,  old  feller ! 
Leave  him  in,  Mark,  can't  we?" 

Kissing  and  hugging  the  dog,  and  stumbling 
over  each  other  and  over  him,  they  went  back 
to  the  dining-room,  which  was  warm  and  stuffy. 
A  coal  fire  was  burning  low  in  the  grate,  the 
window-panes  were  beaded,  and  the  little  boys 
had  marked  their  initials  in  the  steam.  They 
had  also  pushed  the  fringed  table-cover  almost 
off,  and  scattered  the  contents  of  a  box  of 
"Lotto  "  over  the  scarred  walnut  top .  The  room 
was  shabby,  ugly,  comfortable.  Julie  and  Mar 
garet  had  established  a  tea-table  in  the  bay 
window,  had  embroidered  a  cover  for  the  wide 
couch,  had  burned  the  big  wooden  bowl  that 


36  Mother 

was  supposedly  always  full  of  nuts  or  grapes  or 
red  apples.  But  these  touches  were  lost  in  the 
mass  of  less  pleasing  detail.  The  "body  Brus 
sels"  carpet  was  worn,  the  wall  paper  depressing, 
the  woodwork  was  painted  dark  brown,  with  an 
imitation  burl  smeared  in  by  the  painter's 
thumb.  The  chairs  were  of  several  different 
woods  and  patterns,  the  old  black  walnut  side 
board  clumsy  and  battered.  About  the  fire 
stood  some  comfortable  worn  chairs.  Margaret 
dropped  wearily  into  one  of  these,  and  the  dark- 
eyed  Julie  hung  over  her  with  little  affectionate 
attentions.  The  children  returned  to  their  game. 

"Well,  what  a  time  you  had  with  little  Dolly 
Scott!"  said  Julie,  sympathetically.  " Ted's 
been  getting  it  all  mixed  up !  Tell  us  about  it. 
Poor  old  Mark,  you're  all  in,  aren't  you  ?  Mark, 
would  you  like  a  cup  of  tea  ?" 

"Love  it!"  Margaret  said,  a  little  surprised, 
for  this  luxury  was  not  common. 

"And  toast  —  we'll  toast  it !"  said  Theodore, 
enthusiastically. 

"No,  no  —  no  tea  !"  said  Mrs.  Paget,  coming 
in  at  this  point  with  some  sewing  in  her  hands. 


Mother  37 

" Don't  spoil  your  dinner,  now,  Mark  dear; 
tea  doesn't  do  you  any  good.  And  I  think 
Blanche  is  saving  the  cream  for  an  apple  tapioca. 
Theodore,  Mother  wants  you  to  go  right  down 
stairs  for  some  coal,  dear.  And,  Julie,  you'd 
better  start  your  table;  it's  close  to  six.  Put 
up  the  game,  Rebecca  !" 

There  was  general  protest.  Duncan,  it  seemed, 
needed  only  "two  more"  to  win.  Little  Robert, 
who  was  benevolently  allowed  by  the  other 
children  to  play  the  game  exactly  as  he  pleased, 
screamed  delightedly  that  he  needed  only  one 
more,  and  showed  a  card  upon  which  even  the 
blank  spaces  were  lavishly  covered  with  glass. 
He  was  generously  conceded  the  victory,  and 
kissed  by  Rebecca  and  Julie  as  he  made  his  way 
to  his  mother's  lap. 

"Why,  this  can't  be  Robert  Paget !"  said  Mrs. 
Paget,  putting  aside  her  sewing  to  gather  him  in 
her  arms.  "Not  this  great,  big  boy !" 

"Yes,  lam!"  the  little  fellow  asserted  joyously, 
dodging  her  kisses. 

"Good  to  get  home!"  Margaret  said  luxu 
riously. 


38  Mother 

"You  must  sleep  late  in  the  morning,"  her 
mother  commanded  affectionately. 

"Yes,  because  you  have  to  be  fresh  for  the 
party  Monday  !"  exulted  Julie.  She  had  flung 
a  white  cloth  over  the  long  table,  and  was  putting 
the  ringed  napkins  down  with  rapid  bangs. 
"And  New  Year's  Eve's  the  dance !"  she  went 
on  buoyantly.  "I  just  love  Christinas,  any 
way  !" 

"Rebecca,  ask  Blanche  if  she  needs  me,"  — 
that  was  Mother. 

"You'd  go  perfectly  crazy  about  her,  Ju,  she's 
the  most  fascinating,  and  the  most  unaffected 
woman !"  Margaret  was  full  of  the  day's  real 
event. 

"And  Mother  theth  that  Ted  arid  Dune  and 
I  can  have  our  friendth  in  on  the  day  after 
Chrithmath  to  thee  the  Chrithmath  tree!" 
That  was  Rebecca,  who  added,  "Blanche  theth 
no,  Mother,  unleth  you  want  to  make  thorn 
cream  gravy  for  the  chopth  !" 

"And,  Mark,  Eleanor  asked  if  Bruce  and  you 
and  I  weren't  going  as  Pierrot  and  Pierettes ; 
she's  simply  crazy  to  find  out !"  This  was  Julie 


Mother  39 

again;  and  then  Margaret,  coaxingly,  "Do  make 
cream  gravy  for  Bruce,  Mother.  Give  Baby 
to  me!"  and  little  Robert's  elated  "I  know 
three  things  Becky's  going  to  get  for  Christmas, 
Mark!" 

"Well,  I  think  I  will,  there's  milk,"  Mrs. 
Paget  conceded,  rising.  "Put  Bran  out,  Teddy  ; 
or  put  him  in  the  laundry  if  you  want  to,  while 
we  have  dinner."  Margaret  presently  followed 
her  mother  into  the  kitchen,  stopping  ii?  a 
crowded  passageway  to  tie  an  apron  over  her 
school  gown. 

"Bruce  come  in  yet?"  she  said  in  a  low 
voice. 

Her  mother  flashed  her  a  sympathetic  look. 

"I  don't  believe  he's  coming,  Mark." 

" Isn't!  Oh,  Mother  !  Oh,  Mother,  does  he 
feel  so  badly  about  Betty?" 

"I  suppose  so!"  Mrs.  Paget  went  on  with 
her  bread  cutting. 

"But,  Mother,  surely  he  didn't  expect  to 
marry  Betty  Forsythe?" 

"I  don't  know  why  not,  Mark.  She's  a  sweet 
little  thing." 


40  Mother 

"But,  Mother-—"  Margaret  was  a  little  at 
a  loss.  "We  don't  seem  old  enough  to  really 
be  getting  married  !"  she  said,  a  little  lamely. 

"Brucie  came  in  about  half -past  five,  and  said 
he  was  going  over  to  Richie's,"  Mrs.  Paget  said, 
with  a  sigh. 

"In  all  this  rain  —  that  long  walk!"  Mar 
garet  ejaculated,  as  she  filled  a  long  wicker  bas 
ket  with  sliced  bread. 

"I  think  an  evening  of  work  with  Richie  will 
do  him  a  world  of  good,"  said  his  mother.  There 
was  a  pause.  "There's  Dad.  I'll  go  in,"  she 
said,  suddenly  ending  it,  as  the  front  door 
slammed. 

Margaret  went  in,  too,  to  kiss  her  father; 
a  tired-looking,  gray-haired  man  close  to  fifty, 
who  had  taken  her  chair  by  the  fire.  Mrs. 
Paget  was  anxious  to  be  assured  that  his  shoul 
ders  and  shoes  were  not  damp. 

"But  your  hands  are  icy,  Daddy,"  said  she, 
as  she  sat  down  behind  a  smoking  tureen  at  the 
head  of  the  table.  "Come,  have  your  nice  hot 
soup,  dear.  Pass  that  to  Dad,  Becky,  and  light 
the  other  gas.  What  sort  of  a  day?" 


Mother  41 

"A  hard  day,"  said  Mr.'  Paget,  heavily. 
"Here,  one  of  you  girls  put  Baby  into  his  chair. 
Let  go,  Bob,  —  I'm  too  tired  to-night  for  mon 
key-shines!"  He  sat  down  stiffly.  "Where's 
Bruce  ?  Can't  that  boy  remember  what  time 
we  have  dinner  ?  " 

"Bruce  is  going  to  have  supper  with  Richie 
Williams,  Dad,"  said  Mrs.  Paget,  serenely. 
"They'll  get  out  their  blue  prints  afterwards  and 
have  a  good  evening's  work.  Fill  the  glasses 
before  you  sit  down,  Ju.  Come,  Ted  —  put 
that  back  on  the  mantel.  —  Come,  Becky  ! 
Tell  Daddy  about  what  happened  to-day, 


They  all  drew  up  their  chairs.  Robert, 
recently  graduated  from  a  high  chair,  was 
propped  upon  "The  Officers  of  the  Civil  War," 
and  "The  Household  Book  of  Verse."  Julie 
tied  on  his  bib,  and  kissed  the  back  of  his  fat 
little  neck,  before  she  slipped  into  her  own  seat. 
The  mother  sat  between  Ted  and  Duncan,  for 
reasons  that  immediately  became  obvious. 
Margaret  sat  by  her  father,  and  attended  to  his 
needs,  te.lling  him  all  about  the  day,  and  laying 


42  Mother 

her  pretty  slim  hand  over  his  as  it  rested  beside 
his  plate.  The  chops  and  cream  gravy,  as  well 
as  a  mountain  of  baked  potatoes,  and  various 
vegetables,  were  under  discussion,  when  every 
one  stopped  short  in  surprise  at  hearing  the  door 
bell  ring. 

"Who  —  ?"  said  Margaret,  turning  puzzled 
brows  to  her  mother,  and  "I'm  sure  I — "  her 
mother  answered,  shaking  her  head.  Ted  was 
heard  to  mutter  uneasily  that,  gee,  maybe  it  was 
old  Pembroke,  mad  because  the  fellers  had 
soaked  his  old  skate  with  snowballs;  Julie 
dimpled  and  said,  "Maybe  it's  flowers  !'?  Rob 
ert  shouted,  "Bakeryman!"  more  because  he 
had  recently  acquired  the  word  than  because  of 
any  conviction  on  the  subject.  In  the  end  Julie 
went  to  the  door,  with  the  four  children  in  her 
wake.  When  she  came  back,  she  looked  bewil 
dered,  and  the  children  a  little  alarmed. 

"It's  — it's  Mrs.  Carr-Boldt,  Mother,"  said 
Julie. 

"Well,  don't  leave  her  standing  there  in  the 
cold,  dear  !"  Mrs.  Paget  said,  rising  quickly,  to 
go  into  the  hall.  Margaret,  her  heart  thumping 


Mother  43 

with  an  unanalyzed  premonition  of  something 
pleasant,  and  nervous,  too,  for  the  hospitality 
of  the  Pagets,  followed  her.  So  they  were  all 
presently  crowded  into  the  hall,  Mrs.  Paget  all 
hospitality,  Margaret  full  of  a  fear  she  would 
have  denied  that  her  mother  would  not  be  equal 
to  the  occasion,  the  children  curious,  Julie  a  little 
embarrassed. 

The  visitor,  fur-clad,  rain-spattered,  —  for 
it  was  raining  again,  —  and  beaming,  stretched 
a  hand  to  Mrs.  Paget. 

"You're  Mrs.  Paget,  of  course,  —  this  is  an 
awful  hour  to  interrupt  you,"  she  said  in  her  big, 
easy  way,  "and  there's  my  Miss  Paget,  —  how 
do  you  do  ?  But  you  see  I  must  get  up  to  town 
to-night  —  in  this  door  ?  I  can  see  perfectly, 
thank  you !  —  and  I  did  want  a  little  talk  with 
you  first.  Now,  what  a  shame  !"  —  for  the  gas, 
lighted  by  Theodore  at  this  point,  revealed  Dun 
can's  bib,  and  the  napkins  some  of  the  others 
were  still  carrying.  "I've  interrupted  your 
dinner  !  Won't  you  let  me  wait  here  until  — " 

"Perhaps  —  if  you  haven't  had  your  supper 
—  you  will  have  some  with  us,"  said  Mrs.  Paget, 


44  Mother 

a  little  uncertainly.  Margaret  inwardly  shud 
dered,  but  Mrs.  Carr-Boldt  was  gracious. 

"Mrs.  Paget,  that's  charming  of  you,"  she 
said.  "But  I  had  tea  at  Dayton,  and  mustn't 
lose  another  moment.  I  shan't  dine  until  I  get 
home.  I'm  the  busiest  woman  in  the  world, 
you  know.  Now,  it  won't  take  me  two  min 
utes—" 

She  was  seated  now,  her  hands  still  deep  in  her 
muff,  for  the  parlor  was  freezing  cold.  Mrs. 
Paget,  with  a  rather  bewildered  look,  sat  down, 
too. 

"You  can  run  back  to  your  dinners,"  said  she 
to  the  children.  "Take  them,  Julie.  Mark, 
dear,  will  you  help  the  pudding?"  They  all 
filed  dutifully  out  of  the  room,  and  Margaret, 
excited  and  curious,  continued  a  meal  that  might 
have  been  of  sawdust  and  sand  for  all  she  knew. 
The  strain  did  not  last  long ;  in  about  ten  min 
utes  Mrs.  Paget  looked  into  the  room,  with  a 
rather  worried  expression,  and  said,  a  little 
breathlessly :  — 

"Daddy,  can  you  come  here  a  moment?  — 
You're  all  right,  dear,"  she  added,  as  Mr.  Page'. 


Mother  45 

indicated  with  an  embarrassed  gesture  his  well- 
worn  house-coat.  They  went  out  together. 
The  young  people  sat  almost  without  speaking, 
listening  to  the  indistinguishable  murmur  from 
the  adjoining  room,  and  smiling  mysteriously 
at  each  other.  Then  Margaret  was  called,  and 
went  as  far  as  the  dining-room  door,  and  came 
back  to  put  her  napkin  uncertainly  down  at 
her  place,  hesitated,  arranged  her  gown  care 
fully,  and  finally  went  out  again.  They  heard 
her  voice  with  the  others  in  the  parlor  .  .  .  ques 
tioning  .  .  .  laughing  .  .  . 

Presently  the  low  murmur  broke  into  audible 
farewells ;  chairs  were  pushed  back,  feet  scraped 
in  the  hall. 

"Good-night,  then!"  said  Mrs.  Carr-Boldt's 
clear  tones,  "and  so  sorry  to  have  —  Good-night, 
Mr.  Paget !  —  Oh,  thank  you  —  but  I'm  well 
wrapped.  Thank  you  !  Good-night,  dear  !  I'll 
see  you  again  soon  —  I'll  write." 

And  then  came  the  honking  of  the  motor-car, 
and  a  great  swish  where  it  grazed  a  wet  bush  near 
the  house.  Somebody  lowered  the  gas  in  the  hall, 
and  Mrs.  Paget 's  voice  said  regretfully,  "I  wish 


46  Mother 

we  had  had  a  fire  in  the  parlor  —  just  one  of  the 
times  !  —  but  there's  no  help  for  it."  They  all 
came  in,  Margaret  flushed,  starry-eyed;  her 
father  and  mother  a  little  serious.  The  three 
blinked  at  the  brighter  light,  and  fell  upon  the 
cooling  chops  as  if  eating  were  the  important 
business  of  the  moment. 

"We  waited  the  pudding,"  said  Julie.  "What 
wit?" 

"Why — "  Mrs.  Paget  began,  hesitatingly. 
Mr.  Paget  briskly  took  the  matter  out  of  her 
hands. 

"This  lady,"  he  said,  with  an  air  of  making  any 
further  talk  unnecessary,  "needs  a  secretary,  and 
she  has  offered  your  sister  Margaret  the  position. 
That's  the  whole  affair  in  a  nutshell.  I'm  not 
at  all  sure  that  your  mother  and  I  think  it  a  wise 
offer  for  Margaret  to  accept,  and  I  want  to  say 
here  and  now  that  I  don't  want  any  child  of 
mine  to  speak  of  this  matter,  or  make  it  a  matter 
of  general  gossip  in  the  neighborhood.  Mother, 
I'd  like  very  much  to  have  Blanche  make  me 
a  fresh  cup  of  tea." 

"Wants  Margaret!"  gasped  Julie,  unaffected 


Mother  47 

—  so  astonishing  was  the  news  —  by  her  father's 
unusual  sternness.  "Oh,  Mother!  Oh,  Mark! 
Oh,  you  lucky  thing  !  When  is  she  coming  down 
here?" 

"She  isn't  coming  down  here  —  she  wants 
Mark  to  go  to  her  —  that's  it,"  said  her  mother. 

" Mark— in  New  York!"  shrilled  Theodore. 
Julie  got  up  to  rush  around  the  table  and  kiss 
her  sister;  the  younger  children  laughed  and 
shouted. 

"There  is  no  occasion  for  all  this,"  said  Mr. 
Paget,  but  mildly,  for  the  fresh  tea  had  arrived. 
"Just  quiet  them  down,  will  you,  Mother?  I 
see  nothing  very  extraordinary  in  the  matter. 
This  Mrs.  —  Mrs.  Carr-Boldt  —  is  it  ?  —  needs 
a  secretary  and  companion;  and  she  offers  the 
position  to  Mark." 

"But  —  but  she  never  even  saw  Mark  until 
to-day !"  marvelled  Julie. 

"I  hardly  see  how  that  affects  it,  my  dear !" 
her  father  observed  unenthusiastically. 

"Why,  I  think  it  makes  it  simply  extraordi 
nary  !"  exulted  the  generous  little  sister.  "Oh, 
Mark,  isn't  this  just  the  sort  of  thing  you  would 


48  Mother 

have  wished  to  happen !  Secretary  work,  — 
just  what  you  love  to  do  !  And  you,  with  your 
beautiful  handwriting,  you'll  just  be  invaluable 
to  her !  And  your  German  —  and  I'll  bet 
you'll  just  have  them  all  adoring  you  —  !  " 

"Oh,  Ju,  if  I  only  can  do  it ! "  burst  from  Mar 
garet,  with  a  little  childish  gasp.  She  was  sitting 
back  from  the  table,  twisted  about  so  that  she 
sat  sideways,  her  hands  clasped  about  the  top 
bar  of  her  chair-back.  Her  tawny  soft  hair 
was  loosened  about  her  face,  her  dark  eyes  aflame. 
"Lenox,  she  said,"  Margaret  went  on  dazedly; 
"and  Europe,  and  travelling  everywhere  !  And 
a  hundred  dollars  a  month,  and  nothing  to  spend 
it  on,  so  I  can  still  help  out  here  !  Why,  it  —  I 
can't  believe  it ! "  —  she  looked  from  one  smiling, 
interested  face  to  another,  and  suddenly  her 
radiance  underwent  a  quick  eclipse.  Her  lip 
trembled,  and  she  tried  to  laugh  as  she  pushed 
her  chair  back,  and  ran  to  the  arms  her  mother 
opened.  "Oh,  Mother!"  sobbed  Margaret, 
clinging  there,  "do  you  want  me  to  go  —  shall 
I  go?  I've  always  been  so  happy  here,  and  I 
feel  so  ashamed  of  being  discontented,  —  and  I 


Mother  49 

don't  deserve  a  thing  like  this  to  happen  to  me  !" 

"Why,  God  bless  her  heart !"  said  Mrs.  Paget, 
tenderly,  "of  course  you'll  go  !" 

"Oh,  you  silly  !  I'll  never  speak  to  you  again 
if  you  don't!"  laughed  Julie,  through  sympa 
thetic  tears. 

Theodore  and  Duncan  immediately  burst  into 
a  radiant  reminiscence  of  their  one  brief  visit 
to  New  York;  Rebecca  was  heard  to  murmur 
that  she  would  "vithet  Mark  thome  day"  ;  and 
the  baby,  tugging  at  his  mother's  elbow,  asked 
sympathetically  if  Mark  was  naughty,  and  was 
caught  between  his  sister's  and  his  mother's 
arms  and  kissed  by  them  both.  Mr.  Paget, 
picking  his  paper  from  the  floor  beside  his  chair, 
took  an  arm-chair  by  the  fire,  stirred  the  coals 
noisily,  and  while  cleaning  his  glasses,  observed 
rather  huskily  that  the  little  girl  always  knew 
she  could  come  back  again  if  anything  went 
wrong. 

"But  suppose  /  don't  suit?"  suggested  Mar 
garet,  sitting  back  on  her  heels,  refreshed  by 
tears,  and  with  her  arms  laid  across  her  mother's 
lap. 


50  Mother 

"Oh,  you'll  suit,"  said  Julie,  confidently:  and 
Mrs.  Paget  smoothed  the  girl's  hair  back  and 
said  affectionately,  "I  don't  think  she'll  find 
many  girls  like  you  for  the  asking,  Mark  !" 

"Reading  English  with  the  two  little  girls," 
said  Margaret,  dreamily,  "and  answering  notes 
and  invitations.  And  keeping  books — " 

"You  can  do  that  anyway,"  said  her  father, 
over  his  paper. 

"And  dinner  lists,  you  know,  Mother — doesn't 
it  sound  like  an  English  story!"  Margaret 
stopped  in  the  middle  of  an  ecstatic  wriggle. 
"Mother,  will  you  pray  I  succeed?"  she  said 
solemnly. 

"Just  be  your  own  dear  simple  self,  Mark," 
her  mother  advised.  "January!"  she  added, 
with  a  great  sigh.  "It's  the  first  break,  isn't  it, 
Dad?  Think  of  trying  to  get  along  without 
our  Mark !" 

"January  ! "  Julie  was  instantly  alert.  "Why, 
but  you'll  need  all  sorts  of  clothes !" 

"Oh,  she  says  there's  a  sewing  woman  always 
in  the  house,"  Margaret  said,  almost  embar 
rassed  by  the  still-unfolding  advantages  of  the 


Mother  51 

proposition.  "I  can  have  her  do  whatever's 
left  over/'  Her  father  lowered  his  paper  to  give 
her  a  shrewd  glance. 

"I  suppose  somebody  knows  something  about 
this  Mrs.  Carr-Boldt,  Mother?"  asked  he. 
"She's  all  right,  I  suppose?" 

"Oh,  Dad,  her  name's  always  in  the  papers," 
Julie  burst  out;  and  the  mother  smiled  as  she 
said,  "We'll  be  pretty  sure  of  everything  before 
we  let  our  Mark  go  !"  Later,  when  the  children 
had  been  dismissed,  and  he  himself  was  going, 
rather  stiffly,  toward  the  stairs,  Mr.  Paget  again 
voiced  a  mild  doubt. 

"There  was  a  perfectly  good  reason  for  her 
hurry,  I  suppose  ?  Old  secretary  deserted  — 
got  married  —  ?  She  had  good  reason  for  want 
ing  Mark  in  all  this  hurry?" 

Mrs.  Paget  and  her  daughters  had  settled 
about  the  fire  for  an  hour's  delicious  discussion, 
but  she  interrupted  it  to  say  soothingly,  "It 
was  her  cousin,  Dad,  who's  going  to  be  married, 
and  she's  been  trying  to  get  hold  of  just  the 
right  person  —  she  says  she's  fearfully  behind 
hand— " 


52  Mother 

"Well,  you  know  best,"  said  Mr.  Paget,  de 
parting  a  little  discontentedly. 

Left  to  the  dying  fire,  the  others  talked, 
yawned,  made  a  pretence  of  breaking  up :  talked 
and  yawned  again.  The  room  grew  chilly. 
Bruce,  —  oldest  of  the  children,  —  dark,  un 
demonstrative,  weary,  —  presently  came  in,  and 
was  given  the  news,  and  marvelled  in  his  turn. 
Bruce  and  Margaret  had  talked  of  their  ambi 
tions  a  hundred  times :  of  the  day  when  he  might 
enter  college  and  when  she  might  find  the  leisure 
and  beauty  in  life  for  which  her  soul  hungered. 
Now,  as  he  sat  with  his  arm  about  her,  and  her 
head  on  his  shoulder,  he  said  with  generous  satis 
faction  over  and  over :  — 

"It  was  coming  to  you,  Mark;  you've  earned 
it!" 

At  midnight,  loitering  upstairs,  cold  and 
yawning,  Margaret  kissed  her  mother  and  brother 
quietly,  with  whispered  brief  good-nights.  But 
Julie,  lying  warm  and  snug  in  bed  half-an-hour 
later,  had  a  last  word. 

"You  know,  Mark,  I  think  I'm  as  happy  as 
you  are  —  no,  I'm  not  generous  at  all !  It's 


Mother  53 

just  that  it  makes  me  feel  that  things  do  come 
your  way  finally,  if  you  wait  long  enough,  and 
that  we  aren't  the  only  family  in  town  that 
never  has  anything  decent  happen  to  it !  ... 
I'll  miss  you  awfully,  Mark,  darling !  .  .  . 
Mark,  do  you  suppose  Mother'd  let  me  take  this 
bed  out,  and  just  have  a  big  couch  in  here  ?  It 
would  make  the  room  seem  so  much  bigger. 
And  then  I  could  have  the  girls  come  up  here, 
don't  you  know  —  when  they  came  over.  .  .  . 
Think  of  you  —  you  —  going  abroad  !  I'd  sim 
ply  die !  I  can't  wait  to  tell  Betty !  .  .  .  I 
hope  to  goodness  Mother  won't  put  Beck  in 
here !  .  .  .  We've  had  this  room  a  long  time 
together,  haven't  we?  Ever  since  Grandma 
died.  Do  you  remember  her  canary,  that  Teddy 
hit  with  a  plate?  .  .  .  I'm  going  to  miss  you 
terribly,  Mark.  But  we'll  write.  .  .  ." 


CHAPTER   III 


|N  the  days  that  followed,  the  mira 
cle  came  to  be  accepted  by  all 
Weston,  which  was  much  excited 
for  a  day  or  two  over  this  honor 
done  a  favorite  daughter,  and  by 
all  the  Pagets, — except  Margaret.  Margaret 
went  through  the  hours  in  her  old,  quiet 
manner,  a  little  more  tender  and  gentle  per 
haps  than  she  had  been;  but  her  heart  never 
beat  normally,  and  she  lay  awake  late  at 
night,  and  early  in  the  morning,  thinking,  think 
ing,  thinking.  She  tried  to  realize  that  it  was 
in  her  honor  that  a  farewell  tea  was  planned  at 
the  club,  it  was  for  her  that  her  fellow-teachers 
were  planning  a  good-bye  luncheon ;  it  was 
really  she  —  Margaret  Paget  —  whose  voice 
said  at  the  telephone  a  dozen  times  a  day,  "On 
the  fourteenth.  —  Oh,  do  I  ?  I  don't  feel  calm  ! 

54 


Mother  55 

Can't  you  try  to  come  in  —  I  do  want  to  see  you 
before  I  go !"  She  dutifully  repeated  Bruce's 
careful  directions ;  she  was  to  give  her  check  to 
an  expressman,  and  her  suitcase  to  a  red-cap; 
the  expressman  would  probably  charge  fifty 
cents,  the  red-cap  was  to  have  no  more  than 
fifteen.  And  she  was  to  tell  the  latter  to  put 
her  into  a  taxicab. 

"I'll  remember/'  Margare'  assured  him  grate 
fully,  but  with  a  sense  of  unreality  pressing  al 
most  painfully  upon  her.  —  One  of  a  million 
ordinary  school  teachers,  in  a  million  little  towns 
—  and  this  marvel  had  befallen  her  ! 

The  night  of  the  Pagets'  Christmas  play  came, 
a  night  full  of  laughter  and  triumph ;  and  marked 
for  Margaret  by  the  little  parting  gifts  that  were 
slipped  into  her  hands,  and  by  the  warm  good 
wishes  that  were  murmured,  not  always  steadily, 
by  this  old  friend  and  that.  When  the  time 
came  to  distribute  plates  and  paper  napkins, 
and  great  saucers  of  ice  cream  and  sliced  cake, 
Margaret  was  toasted  in  cold  sweet  lemonade; 
and  drawing  close  together  to  "harmonize" 
more  perfectly,  the  circle  about  her  touched 


56  Mother 

their  glasses  while  they  sang,  "For  she's  a  jolly 
good  fellow."  Later,  when  the  little  supper  was 
almost  over,  Ethel  Elliot,  leaning  over  to  lay 
her  hand  on  Margaret's,  began  in  her  rich  con 
tralto  :  - 

"  When  other  lips  and  other  hearts  .  .  ." 

and  as  they  all  went  seriously  through  the  two 
verses,  they  stood  up,  one  by  one,  and  linked 
arms ;  the  little  circle,  affectionate  and  admiring, 
that  had  bounded  Margaret's  friendships  until 
now. 

Then  Christmas  came,  with  a  dark,  freezing 
walk  to  the  pine- spiced  and  candle-lighted  early 
service  in  the  little  church,  and  a  quicker  walk 
home,  chilled  and  happy  and  hungry,  to  a  riotous 
Christmas  breakfast,  and  a  littered  breakfast 
table.  The  new  year  came,  with  a  dance  and 
revel,  and  the  Pagets  took  one  of  their  long 
tramps  through  the  snowy  afternoon,  and  came 
back  hungry  for  a  big  dinner.  Then  there  was 
dressmaking,  —  Mrs.  Schmidt  in  command,  Mrs. 
Paget  tireless  at  the  machine,  Julie  all  eager 
interest.  Margaret,  patiently  standing  to  be 


Mother  57 

fitted,  conscious  of  the  icy,  wet  touch  of  Mrs. 
Schmidt's  red  fingers  on  her  bare  arms,  dreamily 
acquiescent  as  to  buttons  or  hooks,  was  totally 
absent  in  spirit. 

A  trunk  came,  Mr.  Paget  very  anxious  that 
the  keys  should  not  be  " fooled  with"  by  the 
children.  Margaret's  mother  packed  this  trunk 
scientifically.  "No,  now  the  shoes,  Mark  — 
now  that  heavy  skirt,"  she  would  say.  "Run 
get  mother  some  more  tissue  paper,  Beck. 
You'll  have  to  leave  the  big  cape,  dear,  and 
you  can  send  for  it  if  you  need  it.  Now  the 
blue  dress,  Ju.  I  think  that  dyed  so  prettily, 
just  the  thing  for  mornings.  And  here's  your 
prayer  book  in  the  tray,  dear ;  if  you  go  Satur 
day  you'll  want  it  the  first  thing  in  the  morning. 
See,  I'll  put  a  fresh  handkerchief  in  it — " 

Margaret,  relaxed  and  idle,  in  a  rocker,  with 
Duncan  in  her  lap  busily  working  at  her  locket, 
would  say  over  and  over :  — 

"You're  all  such  angels,  —  I'll  never  forget 
it !  *  and  wish  that,  knowing  how  sincerely  she 
meant  it,  she  could  feel  it  a  little  more.  Con 
versation  languished  in  these  days ;  mother  and 


58  Mother 

daughters  feeling  that  time  was  too  precious 
to  waste  speech  of  little  things,  and  that  their 
hearts  were  too  full  to  touch  upon  the  great 
change  impending. 

A  night  came  when  the  Pagets  went  early 
upstairs,  saying  that,  after  all,  it  was  not  like 
people  marrying  and  going  to  Russia;  it  was 
not  like  a  real  parting;  it  wasn't  as  if  Mark 
couldn't  come  home  again  in  four  hours  if  any 
thing  went  wrong  at  either  end  of  the  line. 
Margaret's  heart  was  beating  high  and  quick 
now ;  she  tried  to  show  some  of  the  love  and 
sorrow  she  knew  she  should  have  felt,  she  knew 
that  she  did  feel  under  the  hurry  of  her  blood 
that  made  speech  impossible.  She  went  to  her 
mother's  door,  slender  and  girlish  in  her  white 
nightgown,  to  kiss  her  good-night  again.  Mrs. 
Paget's  big  arms  went  about  her  daughter. 
Margaret  laid  her  head  childishly  on  her  mother's 
shoulder.  Nothing  of  significance  was  said. 
Margaret  whispered,  " Mother,  I  love  you!" 
Her  mother  said,  "You  were  such  a  little  thing, 
Mark,  when  I  kissed  you  one  day,  without 
hugging  you,  and  you  said,  'Please  don't  love 


Mother  59 

me  just  with  your  face,  Mother,  love  me  with 
your  heart  !'"  Then  she  added,  "Did  you  and 
Julie  get  that  extra  blanket  down  to-day,  dear  ? 
—  it's  going  to  be  very  cold."  Margaret 
nodded.  " Good-night,  little  girl—"  " Good 
night,  Mother  —  " 

That  was  the  real  farewell,  for  the  next  morn 
ing  was  all  confusion.  They  dressed  hurriedly, 
by  chilly  gas-light;  clocks  were  compared, 
Rebecca's  back  buttoned;  Duncan's  overcoat 
jerked  on;  coffee  drunk  scalding  hot  as  they 
stood  about  the  kitchen  table;  bread  barely 
tasted.  They  walked  to  the  railway  station  on 
wet  sidewalks,  under  a  broken  sky,  Bruce,  with 
Margaret's  suit-case,  in  the  lead.  Weston  was 
asleep  in  the  gray  morning,  after  the  storm.  Far 
and  near  belated  cocks  were  crowing. 

A  score  of  old  friends  met  Margaret  at  the 
train;  there  were  gifts,  promises,  good  wishes. 
There  came  a  moment  when  it  was  generally 
felt  that  the  Pagets  should  be  left  alone,  now  — 
the  far  whistle  of  the  train  beyond  the  bridge  — 
the  beginning  of  good-byes  —  a  sudden  filling 
of  the  mother's  eyes  that  was  belied  by  her  smile. 


60  Mother 

—  "  Good-bye,  sweetest  —  don't  knock  my  hat 
off,  baby  dear !    Beck,  darling  —  Oh,  Ju,  do! 
don't  just  say  it  —  start  me  a  letter  to-night ! 
ALL  write    to    me !      Good-bye,   Dad,   darling, 

—  all  right,  Bruce,  I'll  get  right  in  !  —  another 
for  Dad.     Good-bye,  Mother  darling,  —  good 
bye  !     Good-bye!" 

Then  for  the  Pagets  there  was  a  walk  back  to 
the  empty  disorder  of  the  house:  Julie  very 
talkative,  at  her  father's  side;  Bruce  walking 
far  behind  the  others  with  his  mother,  —  and 
the  day's  familiar  routine  to  be  somehow  gone 
through  without  Margaret. 

But  for  Margaret,  settling  herself  comfortably 
in  the  grateful  warmth  of  the  train,  and  watching 
the  uncertain  early  sunshine  brighten  unfamiliar 
fields  and  farmhouses,  every  brilliant  possi 
bility  in  life  seemed  to  be  waiting.  She  tried 
to  read,  to  think,  to  pray,  to  stare  steadily  out 
of  the  window;  she  could  do  nothing  for  more 
than  a  moment  at  a  time.  Her  thoughts  went 
backward  and  forward  like  a  weaving  shuttle: 
"How  good  they've  all  been  to  me  !  How  grate 
ful  I  am  !  Now  if  only,  only,  I  can  make  good  ! " 


Mother  61 

"Look  out  for  the  servants!"  Julie,  from 
the  depth  of  her  sixteen-years-old  wisdom  had 
warned  her  sister.  "  The  governess  will  hate  you 
because  she'll  be  afraid  you'll  cut  her  out,  and 
Mrs.  Carr-Boldt's  maid  will  be  a  cat!  They 
always  are,  in  books." 

Margaret  had  laughed  at  this  advice,  but  in 
her  heart  she  rather  believed  it.  Her  new  work 
seemed  so  enchanting  to  her  that  it  was  not  easy 
to  believe  that  she  did  not  stand  in  somebody's 
light.  She  was  glad  that  by  a  last-moment 
arrangement  she  was  to  arrive  at  the  Grand 
Central  Station  at  almost  the  same  moment 
as  Mrs.  Carr-Boldt  herself,  who  was  coming 
home  from  a  three-weeks'  visit  in  the  middle 
west.  Margaret  gave  only  half  her  attention 
to  the  flying  country  that  was  beginning  to  shape 
itself  into  streets  and  rows  of  houses;  all  the 
last  half  hour  of  the  trip  was  clouded  by  the  ner 
vous  fear  that  she  would  somehow  fail  to  find 
Mrs.  Carr-Boldt  in  the  confusion  at  the  railroad 
terminal. 

But  happily  enough  the  lady  was  found  with 
out  trouble,  or  rather  Margaret  was  found,  felt 


62  Mother 

an  authoritative  tap  on  her  shoulder,  caught  a 
breath  of  fresh  violets,  and  a  glimpse  of  her 
patron's  clear-skinned,  resolute  face.  They 
whirled  through  wet  deserted  streets;  Mrs. 
Carr-Boldt  gracious  and  talkative,  Margaret 
nervously  interested  and  amused. 

Their  wheels  presently  grated  against  a  curb, 
a  man  in  livery  opened  the  limousine  door. 
Margaret  saw  an  immense  stone  mansion  facing 
the  park,  climbed  a  dazzling  flight  of  wide  steps, 
and  was  in  a  great  hall  that  faced  an  interior 
court,  where  there  were  Florentine  marble 
benches,  and  the  great  lifted  leaves  of  palms. 
She  was  a  little  dazed  by  crowded  impressions ; 
impressions  of  height  and  spaciousness  and  rich 
ness,  and  opening  vistas;  a  great  marble  stair 
way,  and  a  landing  where  there  was  an  immense 
designed  window  in  clear  leaded  glass;  rugs, 
tapestries,  mirrors,  polished  wood  and  great 
chairs  with  brocaded  seats  and  carved  dark 
backs.  Two  little  girls,  heavy,  well  groomed 
little  girls,  —  one  spectacled  and  good-natured 
looking,  the  other  rather  pretty,  with  a  mass  of 
fair  hair,  —  were  coming  down  the  stairs  with 


Mother  63 

an  eager  little  German  woman.  They  kissed 
their  mother,  much  diverted  by  the  mad  rushes 
and  leaps  of  the  two  white  poodles  who  accom 
panied  them. 

"These  are  my  babies,  Miss  Paget,"  said  Mrs. 
Carr-Boldt.  "This  is  Victoria,  who's  eleven, 
and  Harriet,  who's  six.  And  these  are  Mon 
sieur  — " 

"Monsieur  Patou  and  Monsieur  Mouche," 
said  Victoria,  introducing  the  dogs  with  entire 
ease  of  manner.  The  German  woman  said  some 
thing  forcibly,  and  Margaret  understood  the 
child's  reply  in  that  tongue:  "Mamma  won't 
blame  you,  Fraulein ;  Harriet  and  I  wished  them 
to  come  down  ! " 

Presently  they  all  went  up  in  a  luxuriously 
fitted  little  lift,  Margaret  being  carried  to  the 
fourth  floor  to  her  own  rooms,  to  which  a  little 
maid  escorted  her. 

When  the  maid  had  gone  Margaret  walked 
to  the  door  and  tried  it,  for  no  reason  whatever ; 
it  was  shut.  Her  heart  was  beating  violently. 
She  walked  into  the  middle  of  the  room  and 
looked  at  herself  in  the  mirror,  and  laughed  a 


64  Mother 

little  breathless  laugh.  Then  she  took  off  her 
hat  carefully  and  went  into  the  bedroom  that 
was  beyond  her  sitting-room,  and  hung  her  hat 
in  a  fragrant  white  closet  that  was  entirely  and 
delightfully  empty,  and  put  her  coat  on  a  hanger, 
and  her  gloves  and  bag  in  the  empty  big  top 
drawer  of  a  great  mahogany  bureau.  Then  she 
went  back  to  the  mirror  and  looked  hard  at  her 
own  beauty  reflected  in  it;  and  laughed  her 
little  laugh  again. 

"It's  too  good  —  it's  too  much!"  she  whis 
pered. 

She  investigated  her  domain,  after  quelling 
a  wild  desire  to  sit  down  at  the  beautiful  desk 
and  try  the  new  pens,  the  crystal  ink-well,  and 
the  heavy  paper,  with  its  severely  engraved 
address,  in  a  long  letter  to  Mother. 

There  was  a  tiny  upright  piano  in  the  sitting- 
room,  and  at  the  fireplace  a  deep  thick  rug,  and 
an  immense  leather  arm-chair.  A  clock  in  crystal 
and  gold  flanked  by  two  crystal  candlesticks 
had  the  centre  of  the  mantelpiece.  On  the 
little  round  mahogany  centre  table  was  a  lamp 
with  a  wonderful  mosaic  shade;  a  little  book- 


Mother  65 

case  was  filled  with  books  and  magazines. 
Margaret  went  to  one  of  the  three  windows, 
and  looked  down  upon  the  bare  trees  and  the 
snow  in  the  park,  and  upon  the  rumbling  green 
omnibuses,  all  bathed  in  bright  chilly  sunlight. 

A  mahogany  door  with  a  crystal  knob  opened 
into  the  bedroom,  where  there  was  a  polished 
floor,  and  more  rugs,  and  a  gay  rosy  wall  paper, 
and  a  great  bed  with  a  lace  cover.  Beyond 
was  a  bathroom,  all  enamel,  marble,  glass,  and 
nickel-plate,  with  heavy  monogrammed  towels 
on  the  rack,  three  new  little  wash-cloths  sealed 
in  glazed  paper,  three  new  tooth-brushes  in 
paper  cases,  and  a  cake  of  famous  English  soap 
just  out  of  its  wrapper. 

Over  the  whole  little  suite  there  brooded  an 
exquisite  order.  Not  a  particle  of  dust  broke 
the  shining  surfaces  of  the  mahogany,  not  a 
fallen  leaf  lay  under  the  great  bowl  of  roses  on 
the  desk.  Now  and  then  the  radiator  clanked 
in  the  stillness;  it  was  hard  to  believe  in  that 
warmth  and  silence  that  a  cold  winter  wind 
was  blowing  outside,  and  that  snow  still  lay  on 
the  ground. 


66  Mother 

Margaret,  resting  luxuriously  in  the  big  chair, 
became  thoughtful ;  presently  she  went  into  the 
bedroom,  and  knelt  down  beside  the  bed. 

"0  Lord,  let  me  stay  here,"  she  prayed,  her 
face  in  her  hands.  "I  want  so  to  stay  —  make 
me  a  success  ! "  • 

Never  was  a  prayer  more  generously  answered. 
Miss  Paget  was  an  instant  success.  In  some 
thing  less  than  two  months  she  became  indis 
pensable  to  Mrs.  Carr-Boldt,  and  was  a  favorite 
with  every  one,  from  the  rather  stolid,  silent  head 
of  the  house  down  to  the  least  of  the  maids. 
She  was  so  busy,  so  unaffected,  so  sympathetic, 
that  her  sudden  rise  in  favor  was  resented  by  no 
one.  The  butler  told  her  his  troubles,  the  French 
maid  darkly  declared  that  but  for  Miss  Paget 
she  would  not  for  one  second  r-r-remain  !  The 
children  went  cheerfully  even  to  the  dentist  with 
their  adored  Miss  Peggy;  they  soon  preferred 
her  escort  to  matinee  or  zoo  to  that  of  any  other 
person.  Margaret  also  escorted  Mrs.  Carr- 
Boldt's  mother,  a  magnificent  old  lady,  on 
shopping  expeditions,  and  attended  the  meet- 


Mother  67 

ings  of  charity  boards  for  Mrs.  Carr-Boldt. 
With  notes  and  invitations,  account  books  and 
cheque  books,  dinner  lists,  and  interviews  with 
caterers,  decorators,  and  florists,  Margaret's 
time  was  full,  but  she  loved  every  moment  of  her 
work,  and  gloried  in  her  increasing  usefulness. 

At  first  there  were  some  dark  days ;  notably 
the  dreadful  one  upon  which  Margaret  somehow 
—  somewhere  —  dropped  the  box  containing 
the  new  hat  she  was  bringing  home  for  Harriet, 
and  kept  the  little  girl  out  in  the  cold  afternoon 
air  while  the  motor  made  a  fruitless  trip  back  to 
the  milliner's.  Harriet  contracted  a  cold,  and 
Harriet's  mother  for  the  first  time  spoke  severely 
to  Margaret.  There  was  another  bad  day  when 
Margaret  artlessly  admitted  to  Mrs.  Pierre 
Poik  at  the  telephone  that  Mrs.  Carr-Boldt 
was  not  engaged  for  dinner  that  evening,  thus 
obliging  her  employer  to  snub  the  lady,  or  accept 
a  distasteful  invitation  to  dine.  And  there  was 
a  most  uncomfortable  occasion  when  Mr.  Carr- 
Boldt,  not  at  all  at  his  best,  stumbled  in  upon  his 
wife  with  some  angry  observations  meant  for  her 
ear  alone;  and  Margaret,  busy  with  accounts 


68  Mother 

in  a  window  recess,  was,  unknown  to  them  both, 
a  distressed  witness. 

"  Another  time,  Miss  Paget,"  said  Mrs. 
Carr-Boldt,  coldly,  upon  Margaret's  appearing 
scarlet-cheeked  between  the  curtains,  "don't 
oblige  me  to  ascertain  that  you  are  not  within 
hearing  before  feeling  sure  of  privacy.  Will 
you  finish  those  bills  upstairs,  if  you  please?" 

Margaret  went  upstairs  with  a  burning  heart, 
cast  her  bills  haphazard  on  her  own  desk,  and 
flung  herself,  dry-eyed  and  furious,  on  the  bed. 
She  was  far  too  angry  to  think,  but  lay  there 
for  perhaps  twenty  minutes  with  her  brain 
whirling.  Finally  rising,  she  brushed  up  her 
hair,  straightened  her  collar,  and,  full  of  tre 
mendous  resolves,  stepped  into  her  little  sitting- 
room,  to  find  Mrs.  Carr-Boldt  in  the  big  chair, 
serenely  eyeing  her. 

"I'm  so  sorry  I  spoke  so,  Peggy,"  said  her 
employer,  generously.  "But  the  truth  is,  I  am 
not  myself  when  —  when  Mr.  Carr-Boldt — " 
The  little  hesitating  appeal  in  her  voice  com 
pletely  disarmed  Margaret.  In  the  end  the  little 
episode  cemented  the  rapidly  growing  friendship 


Mother  69 

between  the  two  women,  Mrs.  Carr-Boldt 
seeming  to  enjoy  the  relief  of  speaking  rather 
freely  of  what  was  the  one  real  trial  in  her 
life. 

"My  husband  has  always  had  too  much 
money,"  she  said,  in  her  positive  way.  "At 
one  time  we  were  afraid  that  he  would  abso 
lutely  ruin  his  health  by  this  —  habit  of  his. 
His  physician  and  I  took  him  around  the  world, 
—  I  left  Victoria,  just  a  baby,  with  mother,  — 
and  for  two  years  he  was  never  out  of  my  sight. 
It  has  never  been  so  bad  since.  You  know 
yourself  how  reliable  he  usually  is,"  she  finished 
cheerfully,  "unless  some  of  the  other  men  get 
hold  of  him!" 

As  the  months  went  on  Margaret  came  to 
admire  her  employer  more  and  more.  There 
was  not  an  indolent  impulse  in  Mrs.  Carr- 
Boldt's  entire  composition.  Smooth-haired, 
fresh-skinned,  in  spotless  linen,  she  began  the 
day  at  eight  o'clock,  full  of  energy  and  interest. 
She  had  daily  sessions  with  butler  and  house 
keeper,  shopped  with  Margaret  and  the  children, 
walked  about  her  greenhouse  or  her  country 


70  Mother 

garden  with  her  skirts  pinned  up,  and  had 
tulips  potted  and  stone  work  continued.  She 
was  prominent  in  several  clubs,  a  famous  dinner- 
giver,  she  took  a  personal  interest  in  all  her 
servants,  loved  to  settle  their  quarrels  and  have 
three  or  four  of  them  up  on  the  carpet  at  once, 
tearful  and  explanatory.  Margaret  kept  for 
her  a  list  of  some  two  hundred  friends,  whose 
birthdays  were  to  be  marked  with  carefully 
selected  gifts.  She  pleased  Mrs.  Carr-Boldt 
by  her  open  amazement  at  the  latter's  vitality. 
The  girl  observed  that  her  employer  could  not 
visit  any  institution  without  making  a  few  vigor 
ous  suggestions  as  she  went  about;  she  accom 
panied  her  cheques  to  the  organized  charities 
— and  her  charity  flowed  only  through  absolutely 
reliable  channels  —  with  little  friendly,  advisory 
letters.  She  liked  the  democratic  attitude  for 
herself,  —  even  while  promptly  snubbing  any 
such  tendency  in  children  or  friends ;  —  and  told 
Margaret  that  she  only  used  her  coat  of  arms  on 
house  linen,  stationery,  and  livery,  because  her 
husband  and  mother  liked  it.  "It's  of  course 
rather  nice  to  realize  that  one  comes  from  one 


Mother  71 

of  the  oldest  of  the  Colonial  families, "  she  would 
say.  "The  Carterets  of  Maryland,  you  know. 
—  But  it's  all  such  bosh!" 

And  she  urged  Margaret  to  claim  her  own  right 
to  family  honors:  "You're  a  Quincy,  my  dear  ! 
Don't  let  that  woman  intimidate  you,  —  she 
didn't  remember  that  her  grandfather  was  a 
captain  until  her  husband  made  his  money. 
And  where  the  family  portraits  came  from  I 
don't  know,  but  I  think  there's  a  man  on  Fourth 
Avenue  who  does  'em!"  she  would  say,  or, 
"I  know  all  about  Lilly  Reynolds,  Peggy.  Her 
father  was  as  rich  as  she  says,  and  I  daresay  the 
crest  is  theirs.  But  ask  her  what  her  maternal 
grandmother  did  for  a  living,  if  you  want  to  shut 
her  up!"  Other  people  she  would  condemn 
with  a  mere  whispered  "Coal!"  or  "Patent 
bath-tubs!"  behind  her  fan,  and  it  pleased  her 
to  tell  people  that  her  treasure  of  a  secretary 
had  the  finest  blood  in  the  world  in  her  veins. 
Margaret  was  much  admired,  and  Margaret 
was  her  discovery,  and  she  liked  to  emphasize 
her  find. 

Mrs.     Carr-Boldt's    mother,     a    tremulous, 


72  Mother 

pompous  old  lady,  unwittingly  aided  the  impres 
sion  by  taking  an  immense  fancy  to  Margaret, 
and  by  telling  her  few  intimates  and  the  older 
women  among  her  daughter's  friends  that  the 
girl  was  a  perfect  little  thoroughbred.  When 
the  Carr-Boldts  filled  their  house  with  the  reck 
less  and  noisy  company  they  occasionally 
affected,  Mrs.  Carteret  would  say  majestically 
to  Margaret :  — 

"You  and  I  have  nothing  in  common  with 
this  riff-raff,  my  dear  !" 

Summer  came,  and  Margaret  headed  a  happy 
letter  "Bar  Harbor."  Two  months  later  all 
Weston  knew  that  Margaret  Paget  was  going 
abroad  for  a  year  with  those  rich  people,  and 
had  written  her  mother  from  the  Lusitania. 
Letters  from  London,  from  Germany,  from 
Holland,  from  Russia,  followed.  "We  are  going 
to  put  the  girls  at  school  in  Switzerland,  and 
(ahem !)  winter  on  the  Riviera,  and  then  Rome 
for  Holy  Week  ! "  she  wrote. 

She  was  presently  home  again,  chattering 
French  and  German  to  amuse  her  father,  teach- 


Mother  73 

ing  Becky  a  little  Italian  song  to  match  her 
little  Italian  costume. 

"It's  wonderful  to  me  how  you  get  along  with 
all  these  rich  people,  Mark,"  said  her  mother, 
admiringly,  during  Margaret's  home  visit.  Mrs. 
Paget  was  watering  the  dejected-looking  side 
garden  with  a  straggling  length  of  hose;  Mar 
garet  and  Julie  shelling  peas  on  the  side  steps. 
Margaret  laughed,  coloring  a  little. 

"Why,  we're  just  as  good  as  they  are, 
Mother!" 

Mrs.  Paget  drenched  a  dried  little  clump  of 
carnations. 

"We're  as  good"  she  admitted;  "but  we're 
not  as  rich,  or  as  travelled,  —  we  haven't  the 
same  ideas;  we  belong  to  a  different  class." 

"Oh,  no,  we  don't,  Mother,"  Margaret  said 
quickly.  "Who  are  the  Carr-Boldts,  except 
for  their  money  ?  Why,  Mrs.  Carteret,  — 
for  all  her  family !  —  isn't  half  the  aristocrat 
Grandma  was !  And  you  —  you  could  be  a 
Daughter  of  The  Officers  of  the  Revolution, 
Mother!" 

"Why,   Mark,    I    never    heard    that!"    her 


74  Mother 

mother  protested,  cleaning  the  sprinkler  with  a 
hairpin. 

"Mother!"  Julie  said  eagerly.  "  Great 
grandfather  Quincy!" 

"Oh,  Grandpa,"  said  Mrs.  Paget.  "Yes, 
Grandpa  was  a  paymaster.  He  was  on  Gov 
ernor  Hancock's  staff.  They  used  to  call  him 
'Major.'  But  Mark—"  she  turned  off  the 
water,  holding  her  skirts  away  from  the  combi 
nation  of  mud  and  dust  underfoot,  "that's  a 
very  silly  way  to  talk,  dear  !  Money  does  make 
a  difference ;  it  does  no  good  to  go  back  into  the 
past  and  say  that  this  one  was  a  judge  and  that 
one  a  major;  we  must  live  our  lives  where  we 
are!" 

Margaret  had  not  lost  a  wholesome  respect 
for  her  mother's  opinion  in  the  two  years  she 
had  been  away,  but  she  had  lived  in  a  very  differ 
ent  world,  and  was  full  of  new  ideas. 

"Mother,  do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  if  you 
and  Dad  hadn't  had  a  perfect  pack  of  children, 
and  moved  so  much,  and  if  Dad  —  say  —  had 
been  in  that  oil  deal  that  he  said  he  wished  he  had 
the  money  for,  and  we  still  lived  in  the  brick 


Mother  75 

house,  that  you  wouldn't  be  in  every  way  the 
equal  of  Mrs.  Carr-Boldt?" 

"If  you  mean  as  far  as  money  goes,  Mark,  — 
no.  We  might  have  been  well-to-do  as  country 
people  go,  I  suppose — " 

" Exactly  !"  said  Margaret;  "and  you  would 
have  been  as  well  off  as  dozens  of  the  people 
who  are  going  about  in  society  this  minute ! 
It's  the  merest  chance  that  we  aren't  rich. 
Just  for  instance:  father's  father  had  twelve 
children,  didn't  he  ?  —  and  left  them  —  how 
much  was  it  ?  —  about  three  thousand  dollars 
apiece — " 

"And  a  Godsend  it  was,  too,"  said  her  mother, 
reflectively. 

"But  suppose  Dad  had  been  the  only  child, 
Mother,"  Margaret  persisted,  "he  would  have 
had—" 

"He  would  have  had  the  whole  thirty-six 
thousand  dollars,  I  suppose,  Mark." 

"Or  more,"  said  Margaret,  "for  Grandfather 
Paget  was  presumably  spending  money  on  them 
all  the  time." 

"Well,  but,  Mark  — "  said  Mrs.  Paget,  laugh- 


76  Mother 

ing  as  at  the  vagaries  of  a  small  child,  "Fathei 
Paget  did  have  twelve  children  —  and  Daddy 
and  I  eight — "  she  sighed,  as  always,  at  the 
thought  of  the  little  son  who  was  gone,  —  "and 
there  you  are !  You  can't  get  away  from  that, 
dear." 

Margaret  did  not  answer.  But  she  thought 
to  herself  that  very  few  people  held  Mother's 
views  of  this  subject. 

Mrs.  Carr-Boldt's  friends,  for  example,  did 
not  accept  increasing  cares  in  this  resigned 
fashion ;  their  lives  were  ideally  pleasant  and 
harmonious  without  the  complicated  responsi 
bilities  of  large  families.  They  drifted  from  sea 
son  to  season  without  care,  always  free,  always 
gay,  always  irreproachably  gowned.  In  winter 
there  were  daily  meetings,  for  shopping,  for 
luncheon,  bridge  or  tea ;  summer  was  filled  with  a 
score  of  country  visits.  There  were  motor-trips 
for  week-ends,  dinners,  theatre,  and  the  opera 
to  fill  the  evenings,  German  or  singing  lessons, 
manicure,  masseuse,  and  dressmaker  to  crowd 
the  morning  hours  all  the  year  round.  Margaret 
learned  from  these  exquisite,  fragrant  creatures 


Mother  77 

the  art  of  being  perpetually  fresh  and  charming, 
learned  their  methods  of  caring  for  their  own 
beauty,  learned  to  love  rare  toilet  waters  and 
powders,  fine  embroidered  linen  and  silk  stock 
ings.  There  was  no  particular  strain  upon  her 
wardrobe  now,  nor  upon  her  purse ;  she  could  be 
as  dainty  as  she  liked.  She  listened  to  the  con 
versations  that  went  on  about  her,  —  sometimes 
critical  or  unconvinced;  more  often  admiring; 
and  as  she  listened  she  found  slowly  but  certainly 
her  own  viewpoint.  She  was  not  mercenary. 
She  would  not  marry  a  man  just  for  his  money, 
she  decided,  but  just  as  certainly  she  would  not 
marry  a  man  who  could  not  give  her  a  com 
fortable  establishment,  a  position  in  society. 

The  man  seemed  in  no  hurry  to  appear ;  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  the  men  whom  Margaret  met  were 
openly  anxious  to  evade  marriage,  even  with  the 
wealthy  girls  of  their  own  set.  Margaret  was 
not  concerned ;  she  was  too  happy  to  miss  the 
love-making  element ;  the  men  she  saw  were  not 
of  a  type  to  inspire  a  sensible  busy,  happy,  girl 
with  any  very  deep  feeling.  And  it  was  with 
generous  and  perfect  satisfaction  that  she  pres- 


78  Mother 

ently  had  news  of  Julie's  happy  engagement. 
Julie  was  to  marry  a  young  and  popular  doctor, 
the  only  child  of  one  of  Weston's  most  prominent 
families.  The  little  sister's  letter  bubbled  joy 
ously  with  news. 

"  Harry's  father  is  going  to  build  us  a  little 
house  on  the  big  place,  the  darling,"  wrote  Julie ; 
"and  we  will  stay  with  them  until  it  is  done. 
But  in  five  years  Harry  says  we  will  have  a  real 
honeymoon,  in  Europe!  Think  of  going  to 
Europe  as  a  married  woman!  Mark,  I  wish 
you  could  see  my  ring ;  it  is  a  beauty,  but  don't 
tell  Mother  I  was  silly  enough  to  write  about 
it!" 

Margaret  delightedly  selected  a  little  collec 
tion  of  things  for  Julie's  trousseau.  A  pair  of 
silk  stockings,  a  scarf  she  never  had  worn,  a 
lace  petticoat,  pink  silk  for  a  waist.  Mrs.  Carr- 
Boldt,  coming  in  in  the  midst  of  these  prepara 
tions,  insisted  ,upon  adding  so  many  other  things, 
from  trunks  and  closets,  that  Margaret  was 
speechless  with  delight.  Scarves,  cobwebby  silks 
in  uncut  lengths,  embroidered  lingerie  still  in 
the  tissue  paper  of  Paris  shops,  parasols,  gloves, 


Mother  79 

and  lengths  of  lace,  —  she  piled  all  of  them  into 
Margaret's  arms.  Julie's  trousseau  was  conse 
quently  quite  the  most  beautiful  Weston  had 
ever  seen;  and  the  little  sister's  cloudless  joy 
made  the  fortnight  Margaret  spent  at  home  at 
the  time  of  the  wedding  a  very  happy  one.  It 
was  a  time  of  rush  and  flurry,  laughter  and  tears, 
of  roses,  and  girls  in  white  gowns.  But  some 
ten  days  before  the  wedding,  Julie  and  Margaret 
happened  to  be  alone  for  a  peaceful  hour  over 
their  sewing,  and  fell  to  talking  seriously. 

"You  see,  our  house  will  be  small,"  said  Julie; 
"but  I  don't  care  —  we  don't  intend  to  stay  in 
Weston  all  our  lives.  Don't  breathe  this  to 
any  one,  Mark,  but  if  Harry  does  as  well  as  he's 
doing  now  for  two  years,  we'll  rent  the  little 
house,  and  we're  going  to  Baltimore  for  a  year 
for  a  special  course.  Then  —  you  know  he's 
devoted  to  Dr.  McKim,  he  always  calls  him 
'the  chief,'  —  then  he  thinks  maybe  McKim  will 
work  him  into  his  practice,  —  he's  getting  old, 
you  know,  and  that  means  New  York !" 

"Oh,  Ju,  —  reaUy!" 

"I  don't  see  why  not,"  Julie  said,  dimpling. 


8o  Mother 

"  Harry 's  crazy  to  do  it.  He  says  he  doesn't 
propose  to  live  and  die  in  Weston.  McKim 
could  throw  any  amount  of  hospital  practice  his 
way,  to  begin  with.  And  you  know  Harry '11 
have  something,  —  and  the  house  will  rent.  I'm 
crazy,"  said  Julie,  enthusiastically,  "to  take  one 
of  those  lovely  old  apartments  on  Washington 
Square,  and  meet  a  few  nice  people,  you  know, 
and  really  make  something  of  my  life  ! " 

"Mrs.  Carr-Boldt  and  I  will  spin  down  for 
you  every  few  days,"  Margaret  said,  falling 
readily  in  with  the  plan.  "I'm  glad  you're  not 
going  to  simply  get  into  a  rut  the  way  some  of 
the  other  girls  have,  —  cooking  and  babies  and 
nothing  else  !  "  she  said. 

"I  think  that's  an  awful  mistake,"  Julie  said 
placidly.  "Starting  in  right  is  so  important. 
I  don't  want  to  be  a  mere  drudge  like  Ethel  or 
Louise  —  they  may  like  it.  I  don't !  Of  course, 
this  isn't  a  matter  to  talk  of,"  she  went  on,  color- 
in/:  a  little.  "I'd  never  breathe  this  to  Mother  ! 
But  it's  perfectly  absurd  to  pretend  that  girls 
don't  discuss  these  things.  I've  talked  to  Betty 
and  Louise  —  we  all  talk  about  it,  you  know. 


Mother  81 

And  Louise  says  they  haven't  had  one  free  sec 
ond  since  Buddy  came.  She  can't  keep  one 
maid,  and  she  says  the  idea  of  two  maids  eating 
their  three  meals  a  day,  whether  she's  home  or 
not,  makes  her  perfectly  sick  !  Some  one's  got 
to  be  with  him  every  single  second,  even  now, 
when  he's  four,  —  to  see  that  he  doesn't  fall  off 
something,  or  put  things  in  his  mouth.  And 
as  Louise  says  —  it  means  no  more  week-end 
trips ;  you  can't  go  visiting  over  night,  you  can't 
even  go  for  a  day's  drive  or  a  day  on  the  beach, 
without  extra  clothes  for  the  baby,  a  mosquito- 
net  and  an  umbrella  for  the  baby  —  milk  packed 
in  ice  for  the  baby  —  somebody  trying  to  get 
the  baby  to  take  his  nap  —  it's  awful !  It  would 
end  our  Baltimore  plan,  and  that  means  New 
York,  and  New  York  means  everything  to  Harry 
and  me  !"  finished  Julie,  contentedly,  flattening 
a  finished  bit  of  embroidery  on  her  knee,  and 
regarding  it  complacently. 

"Well,  I  think  you're  right,"  Margaret  ap 
proved.  "  Things  are  different  now  from  what 
they  were  in  Mother's  day." 

"And   look   at   Mother,"   Julie   said.     "One 


82  Mother 

long  slavery !    Life's  too  short  to  wear  yourself 
out  that  way !" 

Mrs.  Paget's  sunny  cheerfulness  was  sadly 
shaken  when  the  actual  moment  of  parting  with 
the  exquisite,  rose-hatted,  gray-frocked  Julie 
came;  her  face  worked  pitifully  in  its  effort  to 
smile;  her  tall  figure,  awkward  in  an  ill-made 
unbecoming  new  silk,  seemed  to  droop  tenderly 
over  the  little  clinging  wife.  Margaret,  stirred 
by  the  sight  of  tears  on  her  mother's  face,  stood 
with  an  arm  about  her,  when  the  bride  and  groom 
drove  away  in  the  afternoon  sunshine. 

"I'm  going  to  stay  with  you  until  she  gets 
back!"  she  reminded  her  mother. 

"And  you  know  you've  always  said  you 
wanted  the  girls  to  marry,  Mother,"  urged  Mr. 
Paget.  Rebecca  felt  this  a  felicitous  moment  to 
ask  if  she  and  the  boys  could  have  the  rest  of 
the  ice-cream. 

"Divide  it  evenly,"  said  Mrs.  Paget,  wiping 
her  eyes  and  smiling.  "Yes,  I  know,  Daddy 
dear,  I'm  an  ungrateful  woman !  I  suppose 
your  turn  will  come  next,  Mark,  and  then  I 
don't  know  what  I  will  do  !" 


CHAPTER   IV 

JUT  Margaret's  turn  did  not  come  for 
nearly  a  year.  Then  —  in  Ger 
many  again,  and  lingering  at  a  great 
Berlin  hotel  because  the  spring  was 
so  beautiful,  and  the  city  so  sweet 
with  linden  bloom,  and  especially  because  there 
were  two  Americans  at  the  hotel  whose  game  of 
bridge  it  pleased  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Carr-Boldt  daily 
to  hope  they  could  match,  —  then  Margaret  was 
transformed  within  a  few  hours  from  a  merely 
pretty,  very  dignified,  perfectly  contented  secre 
tary,  entirely  satisfied  with  what  she  wore  as  long 
as  it  was  suitable  and  fresh,  into  a  living  woman, 
whose  cheeks  paled  and  flushed  at  nothing  but 
her  thoughts,  who  laughed  at  herself  in  her 
mirror,  loitered  over  her  toilet  trying  one  gown 
after  another,  and  walked  half-smiling  through 
a  succession  of  rosy  dreams. 

It  all  came  about  very  simply.     One  of  the 
83 


84  Mother 

afore-mentioned  bridge  players  wondered  if 
Mrs.  Carr-Boldt  and  her  niece  —  oh,  wasn't  it  ? 
—  her  secretary  then,  —  would  like  to  hear  a  very 
interesting  young  American  professor  lecture 
this  morning  ?  —  wondered,  when  they  were 
fanning  themselves  in  the  airy  lecture-room,  if 
they  would  care  to  meet  Professor  Tenison  ? 

Margaret  looked  into  a  pair  of  keen,  humorous 
eyes,  answered  with  her  own  smile  Professor 
Tenison 's  sudden  charming  one,  lost  her  small 
hand  in  his  big  firm  one.  Then  she  listened  to 
him  talk,  as  he  strode  about  the  platform,  boy 
ishly  shaking  back  the  hair  that  fell  across  his 
forehead.  After  that  he  walked  to  the  hotel 
with  them,  through  dazzling  seas  of  perfume,  and 
of  flowers,  under  the  enchanted  shifting  green 
of  great  trees,  —  or  so  Margaret  thought. 
There  was  a  plunge  from  the  hot  street  into  the 
awninged  cool  gloom  of  the  hotel,  and  then  a 
luncheon,  when  the  happy  steady  murmur  from 
their  own  table  seemed  echoed  by  the  murmurous 
clink  and  stir  and  laughter  all  about  them,  and 
accented  by  the  not-too-close  music  from  the 
band. 


Mother  85 

Doctor  Tenison  was  everything  charming, 
Margaret  thought,  instantly  drawn  by  the  un 
affected,  friendly  manner,  and  watching  the  in 
terested  gleam  of  his  blue  eyes  and  the  white 
flash  of  his  teeth.  He  was  a  gentleman,  to 
begin  with ;  distinguished  at  thirty-two  in  his 
chosen  work;  big  and  well-built,  without  sug 
gesting  the  athlete,  of  an  old  and  honored 
American  family,  and  the  only  son  of  a  rich 
—  and  eccentric  —  old  doctor  whom  Mrs.  Carr- 
Boldt  chanced  to  know. 

He  was  frankly  delighted  at  the  chance  that 
had  brought  him  in  contact  with  these  charming 
people ;  and  as  Mrs.  Carr-Boldt  took  an  instant 
fancy  to  him,  and  as  he  was  staying  at  their  own 
hotel,  they  saw  him  after  that  every  day,  and 
several  times  a  day.  Margaret  would  come 
down  the  great  sun-bathed  stairway  in  the 
morning  to  find  him  patiently  waiting  in  a  porch 
chair.  Her  heart  would  give  a  great  leap  — 
half  joy,  half  new  strange  pain,  as  she  recog 
nized  him.  There  would  be  time  for  a  chat  over 
their  fruit  and  eggs  before  Mr.  Carr-Boldt  came 
down,  all  ready  for  a  motor-trip,  or  Mrs.  Carr- 


86  Mother 

Boldt,  swathed  in  cream-colored  coat  and  flying 
veils,  joined  them  with  an  approving  "  Good- 
morning." 

Margaret  would  remember  these  breakfasts 
all  her  life;  the  sun-splashed  little  table  in  a 
corner  of  the  great  dining-room,  the  rosy  fath 
erly  waiter  who  was  so  much  delighted  with  her 
German,  the  busy  picturesque  traffic  in  the 
street  just  below  the  wide-open  window.  She 
would  always  remember  a  certain  filmy  silk 
striped  gown,  a  wide  hat  loaded  with  daisies; 
always  love  the  odor  of  linden  trees  in  the  spring. 

Sometimes  the  professor  went  with  them  on 
their  morning  drive,  to  be  dropped  at  the  lecture- 
hall  with  Margaret  and  Mrs.  Carr-Boldt.  The 
latter  was  pleased  to  take  the  course  of  lectures 
very  seriously,  and  carried  a  handsome  Russian 
leather  note-book,  and  a  gold  pencil.  Sometimes 
after  luncheon  they  all  went  on  an  expedition 
together,  and  now  and  then  Margaret  and 
Doctor  Tenison  went  off  alone  on  foot,  to  ex 
plore  the  city.  They  would  end  the  afternoon 
with  coffee  and  little  cakes  in  some  tea-room, 
and  come  home  tired  and  merry  in  the  long 


Mother  87 

shadows  of  the  spring  sunset,  with  wilted  flowers 
from  the  street  markets  in  their  hands. 

There  was  one  glorious  tramp  in  the  rain,  when 
the  professor's  great  laugh  rang  out  like  a  boy's 
for  sheer  high  spirits,  and  when  Margaret  was 
an  enchanting  vision  in  her  long  coat,  with  her 
cheeks  glowing  through  the  blown  wet  tendrils 
of  her  hair.  That  day  they  had  tea  in  the  de 
serted  charming  little  parlor  of  a  tiny  inn,  and 
drank  it  toasting  their  feet  over  a  glowing  fire. 

"Is  Mrs.  Carr-Boldt  your  mother's  or  your 
father's  sister?"  John  Tenison  asked,  watching 
his  companion  with  approval. 

"Oh,  good  gracious  !"  said  Margaret,  laughing 
over  her  teacup.  "Haven't  I  told  you  yet  that 
I'm  only  her  secretary?  I  never  saw  Mrs. 
Carr-Boldt  until  five  years  ago." 

"Perhaps  you  did  tell  me.  But  I  got  it  into 
my  head,  that  first  day,  that  you  were  aunt  and 
niece — " 

"People  do,  I  think,"  Margaret  said  thought 
fully,  "because  we're  both  fair."  She  did  not 
say  that  but  for  Mrs.  Carr-Boldt's  invaluable 
maid  the  likeness  would  have  been  less  marked, 


88  Mother 

on  this  score  at  least.  "I  taught  school/'  she 
went  on  simply,  "and  Mrs.  Carr-Boldt  happened 
to  come  to  my  school,  and  she  asked  me  to  come 
to  her." 

"You're  all  alone  in  the  world,  Miss  Paget?" 
He  was  eyeing  her  musingly ;  i:he  direct  question 
came  quite  naturally. 

"Oh,  dear  me,  no  !  My  father  and  mother 
are  living" ;  and  feeling,  as  she  always  did,  a  little 
claim  on  her  loyalty,  she  added:  "We  are,  or 
were,  rather,  Southern  people,  —  but  my  father 
settled  in  a  very  small  New  York  town  — " 

"Mrs.  Carr-Boldt  told  me  that  —  I'd  for 
gotten  — "  said  Professor  Tenison,  and  he  carried 
the  matter  entirely  out  of  Margaret's  hands,  — 
much,  much  further  indeed  than  she  would  have 
carried  it,  by  continuing,  "She  tells  me  that 
Quincyport  was  named  for  your  mother's 
grandfather,  and  that  Judge  Paget  was  your 
father's  father." 

"Father's  uncle,"  Margaret  corrected,  al 
though  as  a  matter  of  fact  Judge  Paget  had  been 
no  nearer  than  her  father's  second  cousin. 
"But  father  always  called  him  uncle,"  Mar- 


Mother  89 

garet  assured  herself  inwardly.  To  the  Quincy- 
port  claim  she  said  nothing.  Quincyport  was 
in  the  county  that  Mother's  people  had  come 
from;  Quincy  was  a  very  unusual  name,  and 
the  original  Quincy  had  been  a  Charles,  which 
certainly  was  one  of  Mother's  family  names. 
Margaret  and  Julie,  browsing  about  among  the 
colonial  histories  and  genealogies  of  the  Weston 
Public  Library  years  before,  had  come  to  a  jubi 
lant  certainty  that  mother's  grandfather  must 
have  been  the  same  man.  But  she  did  not  feel 
quite  so  positive  now. 

"Your  people  aren't  still  in  the  South,  you 
said?" 

"Oh,    no!"    Margaret    cleared    her    throat. 
"They're  in  Weston  —  Weston,  New  York." 
"  Weston  I    Not  near  Dayton  ?  " 
"Why,  yes!    Do  you  know  Dayton?" 
"Do  I  know  Dayton  ? "     He  was  like  an  eager 
child.     "Why,  my  Aunt  Pamela  lives  there;  the 
only  mother  I  ever  knew  !     I  knew  Weston,  too, 
a  little.    Lovely  homes  there,  some  of  them,  — 
old   colonial   houses.     And   your   mother   lives 
there  ?    Is  she  fond  of  flowers  ?  " 


90  Mother 

"She  loves  them/'  Margaret  said,  vaguely 
uncomfortable. 

"Well,  she  must  know  Aunt  Pamela,"  said 
John  Tenison,  enthusiastically.  "I  expect 
they'd  be  great  friends.  And  you  must  know 
Aunt  Pam.  She's  like  a  dainty  old  piece  of 
china,  or  a  —  I  don't  know,  a  tea  rose  !  She  's 
never  married,  and  she  lives  in  the  most  charming 
brick  house,  with  brick  walls  and  hollyhocks 
all  about  it,  and  such  an  atmosphere  inside ! 
She  has  an  old  maid  and  an  old  gardener,  and 
—  don't  you  know  —  she's  the  sort  of  wToman 
who  likes  to  sit  down  under  a  portrait  of  your 
great-grandfather,  in  a  dim  parlor  full  of  ma 
hogany  and  rose  jars,  with  her  black  silk  skirts 
spreading  about  her,  and  an  Old  Blue  cup  in  her 
hand,  and  talk  family,  —  how  cousin  this 
married  a  man  whose  people  aren't  anybody, 
and  cousin  that  is  outraging  precedent  by  nam 
ing  her  child  for  her  husband's  side  of  the  house. 
She's  a  funny,  dear  old  lady  !  You  know,  Miss 
Paget,"  the  professor  went  on,  with  his  eager, 
impersonal  air,  "when  I  met  you,  I  thought  you 
didn't  quite  seem  like  a  New  Yorker  and  a  Bar 


Mother  91 

Harborer  —  if  that's  the  word !  Aunt  Pam 
—  you  know  she's  my  only  mother,  I  got  all  my 
early  knowledge  from  her  !  —  Aunt  Pam  detests 
the  usual  New  York  girl,  and  the  minute  I  met 
you  I  knew  she'd  like  you.  You'd  sort  of  fit 
into  the  Dayton  picture,  with  your  braids,  and 
those  ruffly  things  you  wear ! " 

Margaret  said  simply,  "I  would  love  to  meet 
her,"  and  began  slowly  to  draw  on  her  gloves. 
It  surely  was  not  requisite  that  she  should  add, 
"But  you  must  not  confuse  my  home  with  any 
such  exquisitely  ordered  existence  as  that.  We 
are  poor  people,  our  house  is  crowded,  our  days 
a  severe  and  endless  struggle  with  the  ugly  things 
of  life.  We  have  good  blood  in  our  veins,  but 
not  more  than  hundreds  of  thousands  of  other 
American  families.  My  mother  would  not 
understand  one  tenth  of  your  aunt's  conversa 
tion;  your  aunt  would  find  very  uninteresting 
the  things  that  are  vital  to  my  mother." 

No,  she  couldn't  say  that.  She  picked  up  her 
dashing  little  hat,  and  pinned  it  over  her  loosened 
soft  mass  of  yellow  hair,  and  buttoned  up  her 
storm  coat,  and  plunged  her  hands  deep  in  her 


92  Mother 

pockets.  No,  the  professor  would  call  on  her  at 
Bar  Harbor,  take  a  yachting  trip  with  the  Carr- 
Boldts  perhaps,  and  then  —  and  then,  when 
they  were  really  good  friends,  some  day  she  would 
ask  Mother  to  have  a  simple  little  luncheon,  and 
Mrs.  Carr-Boldt  would  let  her  bring  Dr,  Teni- 
son  down  in  the  motor  from  New  York.  And 
meantime  —  no  need  to  be  too  explicit. 

For  just  two  happy  weeks  Margaret  lived  in 
Wonderland.  The  fourteen  days  were  a  revela 
tion  to  her.  Life  seemed  to  grow  warmer,  more 
rosy-colored.  Little  things  became  signifi 
cant;  every  moment  carried  its  freight  of  joy. 
Her  beauty,  always  notable,  became  almost 
startling;  there  was  a  new  glow  in  her  cheeks 
and  lips,  new  fire  in  the  dark-lashed  eyes  that 
were  so  charming  a  contrast  to  her  bright  hair. 
Like  a  pair  of  joyous  and  irresponsible  children 
she  and  John  Tenison  walked  through  the  days, 
too  happy  ever  to  pause  and  ask  themselves 
whither  they  were  going. 

Then  abruptly  it  ended.  Victoria,  brought 
down  from  school  in  Switzerland  with  various 
indications  of  something  wrong,  was  in  a  flash 


Mother  93 

a  sick  child ;  a  child  who  must  be  hurried  home 
to  the  only  surgeon  in  whom  Mrs.  Carr-Boldt 
placed  the  least  trust.  There  was  hurried  pack 
ing,  telephoning,  wiring ;  it  was  only  a  few  hours 
after  the  great  German  physician's  diagnosis 
that  they  were  all  at  the  railway  station,  breath 
less,  nervous,  eager  to  get  started. 

Doctor  Tenison  accompanied  them  to  the  sta 
tion,  and  in  the  five  minutes'  wait  before  their 
train  left,  a  little  incident  occurred,  the  memory 
of  which  clouded  Margaret's  dreams  for  many 
a  day  to  come.  Arriving,  as  they  were  depart 
ing,  were  the  St.  George  Aliens,  noisy,  rich, 
arrogant  New  Yorkers,  for  whom  Margaret  had 
a  special  dislike.  The  Aliens  fell  joyously 
upon  the  Carr-Boldt  party,  with  a  confusion  of 
greetings.  "And  Jack  Tenison  !"  shouted  Lily 
Allen,  delightedly.  "Well,  what  fun  1  What 
are  you  doing  here?" 

"I'm  feeling  a  little  lonely,"  said  the  profes 
sor,  smiling  at  Mrs.  Carr-Boldt. 

"Nothing  like  that;  unsay  them  woyds," 
said  Maude  Allen,  cheerfully.  "Mamma,  make 
him  dine  with  us !  Say  you  will." 


94  Mother 

"I  assure  you  I  was  dreading  the  lonely  even 
ing,"  John  Tenison  said  gratefully.  Mar 
garet's  last  glimpse  of  his  face  was  between 
Lily's  pink  and  cherry  hat,  and  Maude's  aston- 
thing  headgear  of  yellow  straw,  gold  braid, 
spangled  quills,  and  calla  lilies.  She  carried  a 
secret  heartache  through  the  worried  fortnight  of 
Victoria's  illness,  and  the  busy  days  that  fol 
lowed;  for  Mrs.  Carr-Boldt  had  one  of  many 
nervous  break-downs,  and  took  her  turn  at  the 
hospital  when  Victoria  came  home.  For  the 
first  time  in  five  happy  years,  Margaret  drooped, 
and  for  the  first  time  a  longing  for  money  and 
power  of  her  own  gnawed  at  the  girl's  heart.  If 
she  had  but  her  share  of  these  things,  she  could 
hold  her  own  against  a  hundred  Maude  and  Lily 
Aliens. 

As  it  was,  she  told  herself  a  little  bitterly,  she 
was  only  a  secretary,  one  of  the  hundred  paid 
dependents  of  a  rich  woman.  She  was  only, 
after  all,  a  little  middle-class  country  school 
teacher. 


CHAPTER  V 

i 

|O  you're  going  home  to  your  own 
people  for  the  week  end,  Peggy? 
—  And   how   many   of    you   are 
there,  —  I  always  forget?"    said 
young  Mrs.  George  Crawford,  neg 
ligently.    She  tipped  back  in    her   chair,  half 
shut  her  novel,  half  shut  her  eyes,  and  looked 
critically  at  her  finger-nails. 

Outside  the  big  country  house  summer  sun 
shine  flooded  the  smooth  lawns,  sparkled  on  the 
falling  diamonds  and  still  pool  of  the  fountain, 
glowed  over  acres  of  matchless  wood  and 
garden.  But  deep  awnings  made  a  clear  cool 
shade  indoors,  and  the  wide  rooms  were  delight 
fully  breezy. 

Margaret,  busy  with  a  ledger   and   cheque 
book,  smiled  absently,  finished  a  long  column, 
made  an  orderly  entry,  and  wiped  her  pen. 
"Seven,"  said  she,  smiling. 
95 


g6  Mother 

"Seven!"  echoed  Mrs.  Potter,  lazily.  "My 
heaven  —  seven  children  !  How  early  Victo 
rian!" 

"Isn't  it?"  said  a  third  woman,  a  very  beau 
tiful  woman,  Mrs.  Watts  Watson,  who  was  also 
idling  and  reading  in  the  white-and-gray  morn 
ing  room.  "Well,"  she  added,  dropping  her 
magazine,  and  locking  her  hands  about  her 
head,  "my  grandmother  had  ten.  Fancy  trying 
to  raise  ten  children  !" 

"Oh,  everything's  different  now,"  the  first 
speaker  said  indifferently.  "Everything's  more 
expensive,  life  is  more  complicated.  People  used 
to  have  roomier  houses,  aunts  and  cousins  and 
grandmothers  living  with  them;  there  was 
always  some  one  at  home  with  the  children. 
Nowadays  we  don't  do  that." 

"And  thank  the  saints  we  don't !"  said  Mrs. 
Watson,  piously.  "If  there's  one  thing  I  can't 
stand,  it's  a  houseful  of  things-in-law  !" 

"Of  course;  but  I  mean  it  made  the  family 
problem  simpler,"  Mrs.  Crawford  pursued.  "Oh 
—and  I  don't  know  !  Everything  was  so  simple. 
All  this  business  of  sterilizing,  and  fumigating, 


Mother  97 

and  pasteurizing,  and  vaccinating,  and  boiling 
in  boracic  acid  wasn't  done  in  those  days,"  she 
finished  vaguely. 

"Now  there  you  are  —  now  there  you  arel" 
said  Mrs.  Carr-Boldt,  entering  into  the  conver 
sation  with  sudden  force.  Entirely  recovered 
after  her  nervous  collapse,  as  brisk  as  ever  in  her 
crisp  linen  gown,  she  was  signing  the  checques 
that  Margaret  handed  her,  frowningly  busy  and 
absorbed  with  her  accounts.  Now  she  leaned 
back  in  her  chair,  glanced  at  the  watch  at  her 
wrist,  and  relaxed  the  cramped  muscles  of  her 
body.  "That's  exactly  it,  Rose,"  said  she  to 
Mrs.  Crawford.  "Life  is  more  complicated. 
People  —  the  very  people  who  ought  to  have 
children — simply  cannot  afford  it !  And  who's  to 
blame?  Can  you  blame  a  woman  whose  life  is 
packed  full  of  other  things  she  simply  cannot 
avoid,  if  she  declines  to  complicate  things  any 
further?  Our  grandmothers  didn't  have  tele 
phones,  or  motor-cars,  or  week-end  affairs,  or 
even  —  for  that  matter  —  manicures  and  hair 
dressers  !  A  good  heavy  silk  was  full  dress 
all  the  year  'round.  They  washed  their  own 


98  Mother 

hair.  The  'up-stairs  girl'  answered  the  door 
bell,  —  why,  they  didn't  even  have  talcum 
powder  and  nursery  refrigerators,  and  sanitary 
rugs  that  have  to  be  washed  every  day !  Do 
you  suppose  my  grandmother  ever  took  a  baby's 
temperature,  or  had  its  eyes  and  nose  examined, 
or  its  adenoids  cut?  They  had  more  children, 
and  they  lost  more  children,  —  without  any 
reason  or  logic  whatever.  Poor  things,  they 
never  thought  of  doing  anything  else,  I  sup 
pose  !  A  fat  old  darky  nurse  brought  up  the 
whole  crowd  —  it  makes  one  shudder  to  think 
of  it !  Why,  I  had  always  a  trained  nurse,  and 
the  regular  nurse  used  to  take  two  baths  a  day. 
I  insisted  on  that,  and  both  nurseries  were  washed 
out  every  day  with  chloride  of  potash  solution, 
and  the  iron  beds  washed  every  week !  And 
even  then  Vic  had  this  mastoid  trouble,  and 
Harriet  got  everything,  almost." 

"Exactly,"  said  Mrs  Watson.  "That's  you, 
Hattie,  with  all  the  money  in  the  world.  Now 
do  you  wonder  that  some  of  the  rest  of  us,  who 
have  to  think  of  money — in  short,"  she  finished 
decidedly,  "do  you  wonder  that  people  are  not 


Mother  99 

having  children  ?  At  first,  naturally,  one  doesn't 
want  them,  —  for  three  or  four  years,  I'm  sure, 
the  thought  doesn't  come  into  one's  head.  But 
then,  afterwards,  —  you  see,  I've  been  married 
fifteen  years  now !  —  afterwards,  I  think  it 
would  be  awfully  nice  to  have  one  or  two  little 
kiddies,  if  it  was  a  possible  thing.  But  it  isn't." 

"No,  it  isn't,"  Mrs.  Crawford  agreed.  "You 
don't  want  to  have  them  unless  you're  able  to  do 
everything  in  the  world  for  them.  If  I  were 
Hat  here,  I'd  have  a  dozen." 

"Oh,  no,  you  wouldn't,"  Mrs.  Carr-Boldt 
assured  her  promptly.  "No,  you  wouldn't! 
You  can't  leave  everything  to  servants  —  there 
are  clothes  to  think  of,  and  dentists,  and  special 
teachers,  and  it's  frightfully  hard  to  get  a  nur 
sery  governess.  And  then  you've  got  to  see 
that  they  know  the  right  people  —  don't  you 
know  ?  —  and  give  them  parties  —  I  tell  you 
it's  a  strain." 

"Well,  I  don't  believe  my  mother  with  her 
seven  ever  worked  any  harder  than  you  do!" 
said  Margaret,  with  the  admiration  in  her  eyes 
that  was  so  sweet  to  the  older  woman.  "Look 


ioo  Mother 

at  this  morning  —  did  you  sit  down  before  you 
came  in  here  twenty  minutes  ago?" 

"I?  Indeed  I  didn't!"  Mrs.  Carr-Boldt 
said.  "I  had  my  breakfast  and  letters  at  seven, 
bath  at  eight,  straightened  out  that  squabble 
between  Swann  and  the  cook,  —  I  think  Paul  is 
still  simmering,  but  that's  neither  here  nor 
there  !  —  then  I  went  down  with  the  vet  to  see 
the  mare.  Joe'll  never  forgive  me  if  I've 
really  broken  the  creature's  knees !  —  then  I 
telephoned  mother,  and  saw  Harriet's  violin 
man,  and  talked  to  that  Italian  Joe  sent  up  to 
clean  the  oils,  —  he's  in  the  gallery  now,  and  — 
let's  see  — " 

"Italian  lesson,"  Margaret  prompted. 

"Italian  lesson,"  the  other  echoed,  "and  then 
came  in  here  to  sign  my  cheques." 

"You're  so  executive,  Harriet!"  said  Mrs. 
Crawford,  languidly. 

"Apropos  of  Swann,"  Margaret  said,  "he 
confided  to  me  that  he  has  seven  children  —  on 
a  little  farm  down  on  Long  Island." 

"The  butler  —  oh,  I  dare  say  !"  Mrs.  Watson 
agreed.  "They  can,  because  they've  no  stan- 


Mother  101 

dard  to  maintain  —  seven,  or  seventeen  —  the 
only  difference  in  expense  is  the  actual  amount 
of  bread  and  butter  consumed." 

"It's  too  bad,"  said  Mrs.  Crawford.  "But 
you've  got  to  handle  the  question  sanely  and 
reasonably,  like  any  other.  Now,  I  love  chil 
dren,"  she  went  on.  "I'm  perfectly  crazy  about 
my  sister's  little  girl.  She's  eleven  now,  and  the 
cutest  thing  alive.  But  when  I  think  of  all 
Mabel's  been  through,  since  she  was  born,  — 
I  realize  that  it's  a  little  too  much  to  expect  of 
any  woman.  Now,  look  at  us,  —  there  are 
thousands  of  people  fixed  as  we  are.  We're 
in  an  apartment  hotel,  with  one  maid.  There's 
no  room  for  a  second  maid,  no  porch  and  no 
back  yard.  Well,  the  baby  comes,  —  one  loses, 
before  and  after  the  event,  just  about  six  months 
of  everything,  and  of  course  the  expense  is  fright 
ful,  but  no  matter  !  —  the  baby  comes.  We 
take  a  house.  That  means  three  indoor  maids, 
George's  chauffeur,  a  man  for  lawn  and  furnace 

-that's  five—" 

"Doubling  expenses,"  said  Mrs.  Carr-Boldt, 
thoughtfully. 


102  Mother 

"  Doubling — !  Trebling,  or  more.  But  that's 
not  all.  Baby  must  be  out  from  eleven  to 
three  every  day.  So  you've  got  to  go  sit  by 
the  carriage  in  the  park  while  nurse  goes  home 
for  her  lunch.  Or,  if  you're  out  for  luncheon,  or 
giving  a  luncheon,  she  brings  baby  home,  bumps 
the  carriage  into  the  basement,  carries  the  baby 
upstairs,  eats  her  lunch  in  snatches  —  the  maids 
don't  like  it,  and  I  don't  blame  them  !  I  know 
how  it  was  with  Mabel ;  she  had  to  give  up  that 
wonderful  old  apartment  of  theirs  on  Gramercy 
Park.  Sid  had  his  studio  on  the  top  floor,  and 
she  had  such  a  lovely  flat  on  the  next  floor,  but 
there  was  no  lift,  and  no  laundry,  and  the  kitchen 
was  small  —  a  baby  takes  so  much  fussing ! 
And  then  she  lost  that  splendid  cook  of  hers, 
Germaine.  She  wouldn't  stand  it.  Up  to  that 
time  she'd  been  cooking  and  waiting,  too,  but 
the  baby  ended  that.  Mabel  took  a  house,  and 
Sid  paid  studio  rent  beside,  and  they  had  two 
maids,  and  then  three  maids,  —  and  what  with 
their  fighting,  and  their  days  off,  and  eternally 
changing,  Mabel  was  a  wreck.  I've  seen  her 
trying  to  play  a  bridge  hand  with  Dorothy  bob- 


Mother  103 

bing  about  on  her  arm  —  poor  girl !  Finally 
they  went  to  a  hotel,  and  of  course  the  child  got 
older,  and  was  less  trouble.  But  to  this  day 
Mabel  doesn't  dare  leave  her  alone  for  one 
second.  And  when  they  go  out  to  dinner,  and 
leave  her  alone  in  the  hotel,  of  course  the  child 
cries  — !" 

"That's  the  worst  of  a  kiddie,"  Mrs.  Watson 
said.  "You  can't  ever  turn  'em  off,  as  it  were, 
or  make  it  spades  !  They're  always  right  on  the 
job.  I'll  never  forget  Elsie  Clay.  She  was  the 
best  friend  I  had,  —  my  bridesmaid,  too.  She 
married,  and  after  a  while  they  took  a  house  in 
Jersey  because  of  the  baby.  I  went  out  there 
to  lunch  one  day.  There  she  was  in  a  house 
perfectly  buried  in  trees,  with  the  rain  sopping 
down  outside,  and  smoke  blowing  out  of  the 
fireplace,  and  the  drawing-room  as  dark  as  pitch 
at  two  o'clock.  Elsie  said  she  used  to  nearly 
die  of  loneliness,  sitting  there  all  afternoon  long 
listening  to  the  trains  whistling,  and  the  maid 
thumping  irons  in  the  kitchen,  and  picking  up  the 
baby's  blocks.  And  they  quarrelled,  you  know, 
she  and  her  husband  —  that  was  the  beginning 


104  Mother 

of  the  trouble.  Finally  the  boy  went  to  his 
grandmother,  and  now  I  believe  Elsie's  married 
again,  and  living  in  California  somewhere. " 

Margaret,  hanging  over  the  back  of  her  chair, 
was  an  attentive  listener. 

"But  people  —  people  in  town  have  chil 
dren!"  she  said.  "The  Blankenships  have  one, 
and  haven't  the  de  Normandys?" 

"The  Blankenship  boy  is  in  college,"  said  Mrs. 
Carr-Boldt;  "and  the  little  de  Normandys 
lived  with  their  grandmother  until  they  were  old 
enough  for  boarding  school." 

"Well,  the  Deanes  have  three!"  Margaret 
said  triumphantly. 

"Ah,  well  my  dear !  Harry  Deane's  a  rich 
man,  arid  she  was  a  Pell  of  Philadelphia,"  Mrs. 
Crawford  supplied  promptly.  "Now  the  East 
mans  have  three,  too,  with  a  trained  nurse 
apieca" 

"I  see,"  Margaret  admitted  slowly. 

"Far  wiser  to  have  none  at  all,"  said  Mrs. 
Carr-Boldt,  in  her  decisive  way,  "than  to  handi 
cap  them  from  the  start  by  letting  them  see  other 
children  enjoying  pleasures  and  advantages  they 


Mother  105 

can't  afford.  And  now,  girls,  let's  stop  wasting 
time.  It's  half-past  eleven.  Why  can't  we 
have  a  game  of  auction  right  here  and  now  ?  " 

Margaret  returned  to  her  cheque-book  with 
speed.  The  other  two,  glad  to  be  aroused, 
heartily  approved  the  idea. 

"Well,  what  does  this  very  businesslike  aspect 
imply?"  Mrs.  Carr-Boldt  asked  her  secretary. 

"It  means  that  I  can't  play  cards,  and  you 
oughtn't,"  Margaret  said,  laughing. 

"Oh  —  ?     Why  not?" 

"Because  you've  lots  of  things  to  do,  and  I've 
got  to  finish  these  notes,  and  I  have  to  sit  with 
Harriet  while  she  does  her  German  — " 

"Where's  Fraulein?" 

"Fraulein's  going  to  drive  Vic  over  to  the 
Partridges'  for  luncheon,  and  I  promised  Swann 
I'd  talk  to  him  about  favors  and  things  for 
to-morrow  night." 

"Well  —  busy  Lizzie!  And  what  have  I  to 
do?* 

Margaret  reached  for  a  well-filled  date-book. 

"You  were  to  decide  about  those  alterations, 
the  porch  and  dining-room,  you  know,"  said  she. 


io6  Mother 

"There  are  some  architect's  sketches  around 
here;  the  man's  going  to  be  here  early  in  the 
morning.  You  said  you'd  drive  to  the  yacht 
club,  to  see  about  the  stage  for  the  children's 
play ;  you  were  to  stop  on  the  way  back  and  see 
old  Mrs.  McNab  a  moment.  You  wanted  to 
write  Mrs.  Polk  a  note  to  catch  the  Kaiserin 
Augusta,  and  luncheon's  early  because  of  the 
Kellogg  bridge."  She  shut  the  book.  "  And  call 
Mr.  Carr-Boldt  at  the  club  at  one,"  she  added. 

"All  that,  now  fancy!"  said  her  employer, 
admiringly. 

She  had  swept  some  scattered  magazines  from  a 
small  table,  and  was  now  seated  there,  negligently 
shuffling  a  pack  of  cards  in  her  fine  white  hands. 

"Ring,  will  you,  Peggy?"  said  she. 

"And  the  boat  races  are  to-day,  and  you  dine 
at  Oaks-in-the-Field,"  Margaret  supplemented 
inflexibly. 

"Yes?  Well,  come  and  beat  the  seven  of 
clubs,"  said  Mrs.  Carr-Boldt,  spreading  the 
deck  for  the  draw. 

"Fraulein,"  she  said  sweetly,  a  moment  later, 
when  a  maid  had  summoned  that  worthy  and 


Mother  107 

earnest  governess,  "tell  Miss  Harriet  that 
Mother  doesn't  want  her  to  do  her  German 
to-day,  it's  too  warm.  Tell  her  that  she's  to 
go  with  you  and  Miss  Victoria  for  a  drive. 
Thank  you.  And,  Fraulein,  will  you  telephone 
old  Mrs.  McNab,  and  say  that  Mrs.  Carr-Boldt 
is  lying  down  with  a  severe  headache,  and  she 
won't  be  able  to  come  in  this  morning  ?  Thank 
you.  And,  Fraulein,  telephone  the  yacht  club, 
will  you?  And  tell  Mr.  Mathews  that  Mrs. 
Carr-Boldt  is  indisposed  and  he'll  have  to  come 
back  this  afternoon.  I'll  talk  to  him  before  the 
children's  races.  And  —  one  thing  more  !  Will 
you  tell  Swann  Miss  Paget  will  see  him  about 
to-morrow's  dinner  when  she  comes  back  from 
the  yacht  club  to-day?  And  tell  him  to  send 
us  something  cool  to  drink  now.  Thank  you 
so  much.  No,  shut  it.  Thank  you.  Have 
a  nice  drive  !" 

They  all  drew  up  their  chairs  to  the  table. 

"You  and  I,  Rose,"  said  Mrs.  Watson. 
"I'm  so  glad  you  suggested  this,  Hattie.  I  am 
dying  to  play." 

"It  really  rests  me  more  than  anything  else," 
said  Mrs.  Carr-Boldt.  "Two  spades." 


CHAPTER  VI 


,  a  blur  of  flying  trees 
and  houses,  bright  in  the  late 
sunlight,  Pottsville,  with  children 
wading  and  shouting,  under  the 
bridge,  Hunt's  Crossing,  then  the 
next  would  be  Weston  —  and  home. 

Margaret,  beginning  to  gather  wraps  and  small 
possessions  together,  sighed.  She  sighed  partly 
because  her  head  ached,  partly  because  the  hot 
trip  had  mussed  her  usual  fresh  trimness,  largely 
because  she  was  going  home. 

This  was  August  ;  her  last  trip  home  had  been 
between  Christmas  and  the  New  Year.  She 
had  sent  a  box  from  Germany  at  Easter,  ties 
for  the  boys,  silk  scarves  for  Rebecca,  books  for 
Dad;  and  she  had  written  Mother  for  her 
birthday  in  June,  and  enclosed  an  exquisite 
bit  of  lace  in  the  letter  ;  but  although  Victoria's 
illness  had  brought  her  to  America  nearly  three 

108 


Mother  109 

months  ago,  it  had  somehow  been  impossible, 
she  wrote  them,  to  come  home  until  now.  Mar 
garet  had  paid  a  great  deal  for  the  lace,  as  a  sort 
of  salve  for  her  conscience,  —  not  that  Mother 
would  ever  wear  it ! 

Here  was  Weston.  Weston  looking  its  very 
ugliest  in  the  level  pitiless  rays  of  the  afternoon 
sun.  The  town,  like  most  of  its  inhabitants, 
was  wilted  and  grimed  after  the  burden  and  heat 
of  the  long  summer  day.  Margaret  carried  her 
heavy  suit-case  slowly  up  Main  Street.  Shop 
windows  were  spotted  and  dusty,  and  shop 
keepers,  standing  idle  in  their  doorways,  looked 
spotted  and  dusty  too.  A  cloud  of  flies  fought 
and  surged  about  the  closely  guarded  door  of  the 
butcher  shop ;  a  delivery  cart  was  at  the  curb,  the 
discouraged  horse  switching  an  ineffectual  tail. 

As  Margaret  passed  this  cart,  a  tall  boy  of 
fourteen  came  out  of  the  shop  with  a  bang  of  the 
wire-netting  door,  and  slid  a  basket  into  the 
back  of  the  cart. 

" Teddy!"  said  Margaret,  irritation  evident 
in  her  voice,  in  spite  of  herself. 

"Hello,  Mark  !"  said  her  brother,  delightedly. 


no  Mother 

"Say,  great  to  see  you!  Get  in  on  the  four- 
ten?" 

"Ted,"  said  Margaret,  kissing  him,  as  the 
Pagets  always  quite  simply  kissed  each  other 
when  they  met,  "what  are  you  driving  Costello's 
cart  for?" 

"Like  to,"  said  Theodore,  simply.  "Mother 
doesn't  care.  Say,  you  look  swell,  Mark!" 

"What  makes  you  want  to  drive  this  horrid 
cart,  Ted?"  protested  Margaret.  "What  does 
Costello  pay  you?" 

"Pay  me?"  scowled  her  brother,  gathering 
up  the  reins.  "  Oh,  come  out  of  it,  Marg'ret ! 
He  doesn't  pay  me  anything.  Don't  you  make 
Mother  stop  me,  either,  will  you?"  he  ended 
anxiously. 

"Of  course  I  won't!"  Margaret  said  impa 
tiently. 

"  Giddap,  Ruth  ! "  said  Theodore ;  but  depart 
ing,  he  pulled  up  to  add  cheerfully,  "Say,  Dad 
didn't  get  his  raise." 

"Did?"  said  Margaret,  brightening. 

"Didn't!"  He  grinned  affectionately  upon 
her  as  with  a  dislocating  jerk  the  cart  started  a 


Mother  in 

ricochetting  career  down  the  street,  with  that 
abandon  known  only  to  butchers'  carts.  Mar 
garet,  changing  her  heavy  suit-case  to  the  rested 
arm,  was  still  vexedly  watching  it,  when  two 
girls,  laughing  in  the  open  doorway  of  the  express 
company's  office  across  the  street,  caught  sight 
of  her.  One  of  them,  a  little  vision  of  pink  hat 
and  ruffles,  and  dark  eyes  and  hair,  came  running 
to  join  her. 

Rebecca  was  now  sixteen,  and  of  all  the  hand 
some  Pagets  the  best  to  look  upon.  She  was 
dressed  according  to  her  youthful  lights ;  every 
separate  article  of  her  apparel  to-day,  from  her 
rowdyish  little  hat  to  her  openwork  hose,  repre 
sented  a  battle  with  Mrs.  Paget's  preconceived 
ideas  as  to  propriety  in  dress,  with  the  honors 
largely  for  Rebecca.  Rebecca  had  grown  up, 
in  eight  months,  her  sister  thought,  confusedly ; 
she  was  no  longer  the  adorable,  un-self-conscious 
tomboy  who  fought  and  skated  and  toboganned 
with  the  boys. 

"Hello,  darling  dear!"  said  Rebecca.  "Too 
bad  no  one  met  you  !  We  all  thought  you  were 
coming  on  the  six.  Crazy  about  your  suit ! 


ii2  Mother 

Here's  Maudie  Pratt.  You  know  Maudie, 
don't  you,  Mark?" 

Margaret  knew  Maudie.  Rebecca's  infatua 
tion  for  plain,  heavy-featured,  complacent  Miss 
Pratt  was  a  standing  mystery  in  the  Paget 
family.  Margaret  smiled,  bowed. 

"I  think  we  stumbled  upon  a  pretty  little 
secret  of  yours  to-day,  Miss  Margaret,"  said 
Maudie,  with  her  best  company  manner,  as  they 
walked  along.  Margaret  raised  her  eyebrows. 
"Rebel  and  I,"  Maudie  went  on,  —  Rebecca  was 
at  the  age  that  seeks  a  piquant  substitute  for 
an  unpoetical  family  name,  —  "Rebel  and  I  are 
wondering  if  we  may  ask  you  who  Mr.  John 
Tenison  is?" 

John  Tenison !  Margaret's  heart  stood  still 
with  a  shock  almost  sickening,  then  beat  furi 
ously.  What  —  how  —  who  on  earth  had  told 
them  anything  of  John  Tenison?  Coloring 
high,  she  looked  sharply  at  Rebecca. 

"Cheer  up,  angel,"  said  Rebecca,  "he's  not 
dead.  He  sent  a  telegram  to-day,  and  Mother 
opened  it — " 

"Naturally,"   said   Margaret,    concealing   an 


Mother  113 

agony  of  impatience,  as  Rebecca  paused  apolo 
getically. 

"He's  with  his  aunt,  at  Dayton,  up  the  road 
here,"  continued  Rebecca;  "and  wants  you  to 
wire  him  if  he  may  come  down  and  spend  to 
morrow  here." 

Margaret  drew  a  relieved  breath.  There  was 
time  to  turn  around,  at  least. 

"Who  is  he,  sis?"  asked  Rebecca. 

"Why,  he's  an  awfully  clever  professor, 
honey,"  Margaret  answered  serenely.  "We 
heard  him  lecture  in  Germany  this  spring,  and 
met  him  afterwards.  I  liked  him  very  much. 
He's  tremendously  interesting."  She  tried  to 
keep  out  of  her  voice  the  thrill  that  shook  her 
at  the  mere  thought  of  him.  Confused  pain  and 
pleasure  stirred  her  to  the  very  heart.  —  He 
wanted  to  come  to  see  her,  he  must  have  tele 
phoned  Mrs.  Carr-Boldt  and  asked  to  call,  or  he 
would  not  have  known  that  she  was  at  home  this 
week  end,  —  surely  that  was  significant,  surely 
that  meant  something !  The  thought  was  all 
pleasure,  so  great  a  joy  and  pride  indeed  that 
Margaret  was  conscious  of  wanting  to  lay  it 


ii4  Mother 

aside,  to  think  of,  dream  of.  ponder  over,  when 
she  was  alone.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  there 
was  instantly  the  miserable  conviction  that  he 
mustn't  be  allowed  to  come  to  Weston,  no  — 
no  —  she  couldn't  have  him  see  her  home  and 
her  people  on  a  crowded  hot  summer  Sunday, 
when  the  town  looked  its  ugliest,  and  the  chil 
dren  were  home  from  school,  and  when  the 
scramble  to  get  to  church  and  to  safely  accom 
plish  the  one  o'clock  dinner  exhausted  the  women 
of  the  family.  And  how  could  she  keep  him  from 
coming,  what  excuse  could  she  give  ? 

"  Don't  you  want  him  to  come  —  is  he  old 
and  fussy?"  asked  Rebecca,  interestedly. 

"I'll  see,"  Margaret  answered  vaguely.  "No, 
he's  only  thirty- two  or  four." 

11  And  charming  !"  said  Maudie  archly.  Mar 
garet  eyed  her  with  a  coolness  worthy  of  Mrs. 
Carr-Boldt  herself,  and  then  turned  rather 
pointedly  to  Rebecca. 

"How's  Mother,  Becky?" 

"Oh,  she's  fine!"  Rebecca  said,  absently  in 
her  turn.  When  Maudie  left  them  at  the  next 
corner,  she  said  quickly :  — 


Mother  115 

"Mark,  did  you  see  where  we  were  when  I 
saw  you?" 

"At  the  express  office  —  ?  Yes,"  Margaret 
said,  surprised. 

"Well,  listen,"  said  Rebecca,  reddening. 
"Don't  say  anything  to  Mother  about  it,  will 
you  ?  She  thinks  those  boys  are  fresh  in  there  — 
She  don't  like  me  to  go  in !" 

"Oh,  Beck  — then  you  oughtn't!"  Mar 
garet  protested. 

"Well,  I  wasn't!"  Rebecca  said  uncomfort 
ably.  "We  went  to  see  if  Maudie's  racket  had 
come.  You  won't  —  will  you,  Mark?" 

"Tell  Mother  —  no,  I  won't,"  Margaret  said, 
with  a  long  sigh.  She  looked  sideways  at  Re 
becca, —  the  dainty,  fast-forming  little  figure,  the 
even  ripple  and  curl  of  her  plaited  hair,  the  as 
sured  pose  of  the  pretty  head.  Victoria  Carr- 
Boldt,  just  Rebecca's  age,  was  a  big  schoolgirl 
still,  self-conscious  and  inarticulate,  her  well- 
groomed  hair  in  an  unbecoming  "club/'  her  well- 
hung  skirts  unbecomingly  short.  Margaret  had 
half  expected  to  find  Rebecca  at  the  same  stage 
of  development. 


n6  Mother 

Rebecca  was  cheerful  now,  the  promise  ex 
acted,  and  cheerfully  observed :  — 

"Dad  didn't  get  his  raise — isn't  that  the 
limit?" 

Margaret  sighed  again,  shrugged  wearily. 
They  were  in  their  own  quiet  side  street  now,  a 
street  lined  with  ugly,  shabby  houses  and  beau 
tified  by  magnificent  old  elms  and  maples.  The 
Pagets'  own  particular  gate  was  weather-peeled, 
the  lawn  trampled  and  bare.  A  bulging  wire 
netting  door  gave  on  the  shabby  old  hall  Mar 
garet  knew  so  well ;  she  went  on  into  the  famil 
iar  rooms,  acutely  conscious,  as  she  always  was 
for  the  first  hour  or  two  at  home,  of  the  bareness 
and  ugliness  everywhere  —  the  old  sofa  that 
sagged  in  the  seat,  the  scratched  rockers,  the 
bookcases  overflowing  with  coverless  magazines, 
and  the  old  square  piano  half-buried  under 
loose  sheets  of  music. 

Duncan  sat  on  the  piano  bench  —  gloomily 
sawing  at  a  violoncello.  Robert, — nine  now,  with 
all  his  pretty  baby  roundness  gone,  a  lean  little 
burned,  peeling  face,  and  big  teeth  missing  when 
he  smiled,  stood  in  the  bay  window,  twisting  the 


Mother  117 

already  limp  net  curtains  into  a  tight  rope. 
Each  boy  gave  Margaret  a  kiss  that  seemed 
curiously  to  taste  of  dust,  sunburn,  and  freckles, 
before  she  followed  a  noise  of  hissing  and  voices 
to  the  kitchen  to  find  Mother. 

The  kitchen,  at  five  o'clock  on  Saturday  after 
noon,  was  in  wild  confusion,  and  insufferably  hot. 
Margaret  had  a  distinct  impression  that  not  a 
movable  article  therein  was  in  place,  and  not  an 
available  inch  of  tables  or  chairs  unused,  before 
her  eyes  reached  the  tall  figure  of  the  woman 
in  a  gown  of  chocolate  percale,  who  was  frying 
cutlets  at  the  big  littered  range.  Her  face  was 
dark  with  heat,  and  streaked  with  perspiration. 
She  turned  as  Margaret  entered,  and  gave  a 
delighted  cry. 

"Well,  there's  my  girl!  Bless  her  heart! 
Look  out  for  this  spoon,  lovey,"  she  added  im 
mediately,  giving  the  girl  a  guarded  embrace. 
Tears  of  joy  stood  frankly  in  her  fine  eyes. 

"I  meant  to  have  all  of  this  out  of  the  way, 
dear,"  apologized  Mrs.  Paget,  with  a  gesture 
that  included  cakes  in  the  process  of  frosting, 
salad  vegetables  in  the  process  of  cooling,  soup 


u8  Mother 

in  the  process  of  getting  strained,  great  loaves  of 
bread  that  sent  a,  delicious  fragrance  over  all 
the  other  odors.  "But  we  didn't  look  for  you 
until  six." 

"Oh,  no  matter!"  Margaret  said  bravely. 

"Rebecca  tell  you/Dad  didn't  get  his  raise?" 
called  Mrs.  Paget,  in  a  voice  that  rose  above  the 
various  noises  of  the  kitchen.  "Blanche!" 
she  protested,  "can't  that  wait?"  for  the  old 
negress  had  begun  to  crack  ice  with  deafening 
smashes.  But  Blanche  did  not  hear,  so  Mrs. 
Paget  continued  loudly:  "Dad  saw  Redman 
himself ;  he'll  tell  you  about  it !  Don't  stay  in 
the  kitchen  in  that  pretty  dress,  dear !  I'm 
coming  right  upstairs." 

It  was  very  hot  upstairs ;  the  bedrooms 
smelled  faintly  of  matting,  the  soap  in  the  bath 
room  was  shrivelled  in  its  saucer.  In  Mar 
garet's  old  room  the  week's  washing  had  been 
piled  high  on  the  bed.  She  took  off  her  hat  and 
linen  coat,  brushed  her  Iiair  back  from  her  face, 
flinging  her  head  back  and  shutting  her  eyes  the 
better  to  fight  tears,  as  she  did  so,  and  began  to 
assort  the  collars  and  shirts  and  put  them  away. 


Mother  119 

For  Dad's  bureau  —  for  B race's  bureau  —  for 
the  boys'  bureau,  table-cloths  to  go  downstairs, 
towels  for  the  shelves  in  the  bathroom.  Two 
little  shirtwaists  for  Rebecca  with  little  holes 
torn  through  them  where  collar  and  belt  pins 
belonged. 

Her  last  journey  took  her  to  the  big,  third-story 
room  where  the  three  younger  boys  slept.  The 
three  narrow  beds  were  still  unmade,  and  the 
western  sunlight  poured  over  tumbled  blankets 
and  the  scattered  small  possessions  that  seem 
to  ooze  from  the  pores  of  little  boys.  Mar 
garet  set  her  lips  distastefully  as  she  brought 
order  out  of  chaos.  It  was  all  wrong,  some 
how,  she  thought,  gathering  handkerchiefs  and 
matches  and  "Nick  Carters"  and  the  oiled  paper 
that  had  wrapped  caramels  from  under  the  pil 
lows  that  would  in  a  few  hours  harbor  a  fresh 
supply. 

She  went  out  on  the  porch  in  time  to  put  her 
arms  about  her  father's  shabby  shoulders  when 
he  came  in.  Mr.  Paget  was  tired,  and  he  told 
his  wife  and  daughters  that  he  thought  he  was 
a  very  sick  man.  Margaret's  mother  met  this 


120  Mother 

statement  with  an  anxious  solicitude  that  was 
very  soothing  to  the  sufferer.  She  made  Mark 
get  Daddy  his  slippers  and  loose  coat,  and  sug 
gested  that  Rebecca  shake  up  the  dining-room 
couch  before  she  established  him  there,  in  a 
rampart  of  pillows.  No  outsider  would  have 
dreamed  that  Mrs.  Paget  had  dealt  with  this 
exact  emergency  some  hundreds  of  times  in  the 
past  twenty  years. 

Mr.  Paget,  reclining,  shut  his  eyes,  remarked 
that  he  had  had  an  "awful,  awful  day,"  and  won 
dered  faintly  if  it  would  be  too  much  trouble  to 
have  " somebody"  make  him  just  a  little  milk 
toast  for  his  dinner.  He  smiled  at  Margaret 
when  she  sat  down  beside  him ;  all  the  children 
were  dear,  but  the  oldest  daughter  knew  she 
came  first  with  her  father. 

"Getting  to  be  an  old,  old  man!'"  he  said 
wearily,  and  Margaret  hated  herself  because  she 
had  to  quell  an  impatient  impulse  to  tell  him  he 
was  merely  tired  and  cross  and  hungry,  before 
she  could  say,  in  the  proper  soothing  tone, 
"  Don't  talk  that  way,  Dad  darling  !"  She  had 
to  listen  to  a  long  account  of  the  "raise,"  wine- 


Mother  121 

ing  every  time  her  father  emphasized  the  differ 
ence  between  her  own  position  and  that  of  her 
employer.  Dad  was  at  least  the  equal  of  any 
one  in  Weston  !  Why,  a  man  Dad's  age  oughtn't 
to  be  humbly  asking  a  raise,  he  ought  to  be  dic 
tating  now.  It  was  just  Dad's  way  of  looking  at 
things,  and  it  was  all  wrong. 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you  one  thing !"  said  Rebecca, 
who  had  come  in  with  a  brimming  soup  plate 
of  milk  toast,  "Joe  Redman  gave  a  picnic  last 
month,  and  he  came  here  with  his  mother,  in 
the  car,  to  ask  me.  And  I  was  the  scornfullest 
thing  you  ever  saw,  wasn't  I,  Ted?  Not 
much!" 

"Oh,  Beck,  you  oughtn't  to  mix  social  and 
business  things  that  way !"  Margaret  said  help 
lessly. 

"Dinner!"  screamed  the  nine-year-old  Rob 
ert,  breaking  into  the  room  at  this  point,  and 
"Dinner  !"  said  Mrs.  Paget,  wearily,  cheerfully, 
from  the  chair  into  which  she  had  dropped  at 
the  head  of  the  table.  Mr.  Paget,  revived  by 
sympathy,  milk  toast,  and  Rebecca's  attentions, 
took  his  place  at  the  foot,  and  Bruce  the  chair 


122  Mhther 

between  Margaret  and  his  mother.  Like  the 
younger  boys,  whose  almost  confluent  freckles 
had  been  brought  into  unusual  prominence  by 
violently  applied  soap  and  water,  and  whose 
hair  dripped  on  their  collars,  he  had  brushed  up 
for  dinner,  but  his  negligee  shirt  and  corduroy 
trousers  were  stained  and  spotted  from  machine 
oil.  Margaret,  comparing  him  secretly  to  the 
men  she  knew,  as  daintily  groomed  as  women, 
in  their  spotless  white,  felt  a  little  resentment 
that  Bruce's  tired  face  was  so  contented,  and 
said  to  herself  again  that  it  was  all  wrong. 

Dinner  was  the  same  old  haphazard  meal 
with  which  she  was  so  familiar ;  Blanche  supply 
ing  an  occasional  reproof  to  the  boys,  Ted  ignor 
ing  his  vegetables,  and  ready  in  an  incredibly 
short  time  for  a  second  cutlet,  and  Robert  beg 
ging  for  corn  syrup,  immediately  after  the  soup, 
and  spilling  it  from  his  bread.  Mrs.  Paget  was 
flushed,  her  disappearances  kitchenward  fre 
quent.  She  wanted  Margaret  to  tell  her  all 
about  Mr.  Tenison.  Margaret  laughed,  and 
said  there  was  nothing  to  tell. 

"  You  might  get  a  horse  and  buggy  from  Peter- 


Mother  123 

son's,"  suggested  Mrs.  Paget,  interestedly,  "and 
drive  about  after  dinner." 

"Oh,  Mother,  I  don't  think  I  had  better  let 
him  come  !"  Margaret  said.  "There's  so  many 
of  us,  and  such  confusion,  on  Sunday !  Ju  and 
Harry  are  almost  sure  to  come  over." 

"Yes,  I  guess  they  will,"  Mrs.  Paget  said,  with 
her  sudden  radiant  smile.  "  Ju  is  so  dear  in  her 
little  house,  and  Harry's  so  sweet  with  her," 
she  went  on  with  vivacity.  "Daddy  and  I  had 
dinner  with  them  Tuesday.  Bruce  said  Re 
becca  was  lovely  with  the  boys,  —  we're  going 
to  Julie's  again  sometime.  I  declare  it's  so  long 
since  we've  been  anywhere  without  the,  children 
that  we  both  felt  funny.  It  was  a  lovely  even 
ing." 

"You're  too  much  tied,  Mother,"  Margaret 
said  affectionately. 

"Not  now  !"  her  mother  protested  radiantly. 
"With  all  my  babies  turning  into  men  and 
women  so  fast.  And  I'll  have  you  all  together 
to-morrow  —  and  your  friend  I  hope,  too,  Mark," 
she  added  hospitably.  "You  had  better  let 
him  come,  dear.  There's  a  big  dinner,  and  I 


124  Mother 

always  freeze  more  cream  than  we  need,  anyway, 
because  Daddy  likes  a  plate  of  it  about  four 
o'clock,  if  there's  any  left." 

"Well  —  but  there's  nothing  to  do,"  Margaret 
protested. 

"No,  but  dinner  takes  quite  a  while/'  Mrs. 
Paget  suggested  a  little  doubtfully;  "and  we 
could  have  a  nice  talk  on  the  porch,  and  then  you 
could  go  driving  or  walking.  I  wish  there  was 
something  cool  and  pleasant  to  do,  Mark," 
she  finished  a  little  wistfully.  "You  do  just  as 
you  think  best  about  asking  him  to  come." 

"I  think  I'll  wire  him  that  another  time 
would  be  better,"  said  Margaret,  slowly.  "  Some 
time  we'll  regularly  arrange  for  it." 

"Well,  perhaps  that  would  be  best,"  her 
mother  agreed.  "Some  other  time  we'll  send 
the  boys  off  before  dinner,  and  have  things  all 
nice  and  quiet.  In  October,  say,  when  the  trees 
are  so  pretty.  I  don't  know  but  what  that's 
my  favorite  time  of  all  the  year!" 

Margaret  looked  at  her  as  if  she  found 
something  new  in  the  tired,  bright  face.  She 
could  not  understand  why  her  mother  —  still 


Mother  125 

too  heated  to  commence  eating  her  dinner  — 
should  radiate  so  definite  an  atmosphere  of  con 
tent,  as  she  sat  back  a  little  breathless,  after 
the  flurry  of  serving.  She  herself  felt  injured 
and  sore,  not  at  the  mere  disappointment  it 
caused  her  to  put  off  John  Tenison's  visit, 
but  because  she  felt  more  acutely  than  ever 
to-night  the  difference  between  his  position  and 
her  own. 

"Something  nice  has  happened,  Mother?" 
she  hazarded,  entering  with  an  effort  into  the 
older  woman's  mood. 

"Nothing  special."  Her  mother's  happy  eyes 
ranged  about  the  circle  of  young  faces.  "But 
it's  so  lovely  to  have  you  here,  and  to  have 
Ju  coming  to-morrow,"  she  said.  "I  just  wish 
Daddy  could  build  a  house  for  each  one  of  you, 
as  you  marry  and  settle  down,  right  around  our 
house  in  a  circle,  as  they  say  people  do  sometimes 
in  the  Old  World.  I  think  then  I'd  have  nothing 
in  life  to  wish  for  !" 

"Oh,  Mother  — in  Weston!"  Margaret  said 
hopelessly,  but  her  mother  did  not  catch  it. 

"Not,  Mark/'  she  went  on  hastily  and  ear- 


126  Mother 

nestly,  "that  I'm  not  more  than  grateful  to  God 
for  all  His  goodness,  as  it  is !  I  look  at  other 
women,  and  I  wonder,  I  wonder  —  what  I  have 
done  to  be  so  blessed!  Mark — "  her  face 
suddenly  glowed,  she  leaned  a  little  toward  her 
daughter,  " dearie,  I  must  tell  you,"  she  said; 
"it's  about  Ju— " 

Their  eyes  met  in  the  pause. 

"Mother  —  really?"  Margaret  said  slowly. 

"She  told  me  on  Tuesday,"  Mrs.  Paget  said, 
with  glistening  eyes.  "Now,  not  a  word  to 
any  one,  Mark,  —  but  she'll  want  you  to  know  ! " 

"And  is  she  glad?"  Margaret  said,  unable  to 
rejoice. 

"Glad?"  Mrs.  Paget  echoed,  her  face  glad 
ness  itself. 

"Well,  Ju's  so  young, — just  twenty-one," 
Margaret  submitted  a  little  uncertainly;  "and 
she's  been  so  free,  —  and  they're  just  in  the  new 
house !  And  I  thought  they  were  going  to 
Europe!" 

"Oh,  Europe!"  Mrs.  Paget  dismissed  it 
cheerfully.  "Why,  it's  the  happiest  time  in 
a  woman's  life,  Mark !  Or  I  don't  know, 


Mother  127 

though,"  she  went  on  thoughtfully,  —  "I  don't 
know  but  what  I  was  happiest  when  you  were 
all  tiny,  tumbling  about  me,  and  climbing  into 
my  lap.  .  .  .  Why,  you  love  children,  dear," 
she  finished,  with  a  shade  of  reproach  in  her 
voice,  as  Margaret  still  looked  sober. 

"  Yes,  I  know,  Mother,"  Margaret  said.  "But 
Julie's  only  got  the  one  maid,  and  I  don't  sup 
pose  they  can  have  another.  I  hope  to  goodness 
Ju  won't  get  herself  all  run  down  !" 

Her  mother  laughed.  "You  remind  me  of 
Grandma  Paget,"  said  she,  cheerfully;  "she 
lived  ten  miles  away  when  we  were  married, 
but  she  came  in  when  Bruce  was  born.  She 
was  rather  a  proud,  cold  woman  herself,  but  she 
was  very  sweet  to  me.  Well,  then  little 
Charlie  came,  fourteen  months  later,  and  she 
took  that  very  seriously.  Mother  was  dead, 
you  know,  and  she  stayed  with  me  again, 
and  worried  me  half  sick  telling  me  that  it 
wasn't  fair  to  Bruce  and  it  wasn't  fair  to 
Charlie  to  divide  my  time  between  them  that 
way.  Well,  then  when  my  third  baby  was 
coming,  I  didn't  dare  tell  her.  Dad  kept 


128  Mother 

telling  me  to,  and  I  couldn't,  because  I  knew 
what  a  calamity  a  third  would  seem  to  her ! 
Finally  she  went  to  visit  Aunt  Rebecca  out 
West,  and  it  was  the  very  day  she  got  back  that 
the  baby  came.  She  came  upstairs,  —  she  'd 
come  right  up  from  the  train,  and  not  seen  any 
one  but  Dad ;  and  he  wasn't  very  intelligible,  I 
guess  —  and  she  sat  down  and  took  the  baby  in 
her  arms,  and  says  she,  looking  at  me  sort  of 
patiently,  yet  as  if  she  was  exasperated  too: 
'Well,  this  is  a  nice  way  to  do,  the  minute  my 
back's  turned !  What  are  you  going  to  call 
him,  Julia?'  And  I  said,  'I'm  going  to  call  her 
Margaret,  for  my  dear  husband's  mother,  and 
she's  going  to  be  beautiful  and  good,  and  grow 
up  to  marry  the  President !"  Mrs.  Paget's 
merry  laugh  rang  out.  "I  never  shall  forget  your 
grandmother's  face." 

"Just  the  same,"  Mrs.  Paget  added,  with  a 
sudden  deep  sigh,  "when  little  Charlie  left  us, 
the  next  year,  and  Brucie  and  Dad  were  both  so 
ill,  she  and  I  agreed  that  you  —  you  were  just 
talking  and  trying  to  walk  —  were  the  only 
comfort  we  had  !  I  could  wish  my  girls  no 


Mother  129 

greater  happiness  than  my  children  have  been 
to  me/'  finished  Mother,  contentedly. 

"I  know,"  Margaret  began,  half  angrily;  "but 
what  about  the  children  ?"  she  was  going  to  add. 
But  somehow  the  arguments  she  had  used  so 
plausibly  did  not  utter  themselves  easily  to 
Mother,  whose  children  would  carry  into  their 
own  middle  age  a  wholesome  dread  of  her  anger. 
Margaret  faltered,  and  merely  scowled. 

"I  don't  like  to  see  that  expression  on  your 
face,  dearie,"  her  mother  said,  as  she  might  have 
said  it  to  an  eight-year-old  child.  "Be  my  sweet 
girl !  Why,  marriage  isn't  marriage  without 
children,  Mark.  I've  been  thinking  all  week 
of  having  a  baby  in  my  arms  again,  —  it's  so 
long  since  Rob  was  a  baby." 

Margaret  devoted  herself,  with  a  rather  sullen 
face,  to  her  dessert.  Mother  would  never  feel 
as  she  did  about  these  things,  and  what  was  the 
use  of  arguing?  In  the  silence  she  heard  her 
father  speak  loudly  and  suddenly. 

"I  am  not  in  a  position  to  have  my  children 
squander  money  on  concerts  and  candy,"  he 
Margaret  forgot  her  own  grievance,  and 


130  Mother 

looked  up.  The  boys  looked  resentful  and 
gloomy ;  Rebecca  was  flushed,  her  eyes  dropped, 
her  lips  trembling  with  disappointment. 

"I  had  promised  to  take  them  to  the  Elks 
Concert  and  dance/'  Mrs.  Paget  interpreted 
hastily.  "But  now  Dad  says  the  Bakers  are 
coming  over  to  play  whist." 

"Is  it  going  to  be  a  good  show,  Ted?"  Mar 
garet  asked. 

"Oh,"  Rebecca  flashed  into  instant  glowing 
response.  "It's  going  to  be  a  dandy!  Every 
one's  going  to  be  there !  Ford  Patterson  is 
going  to  do  a  monologue,  —  he's  as  good  as  a 
professional !  —  and  George  is  going  to  send 
up  a  bunch  of  carrots  and  parsnips !  And  the 
Weston  Male  Quartette,  Mark,  and  a  playlet 
by  the  Hunt's  Crossing  Amateur  Theatrical 
Society!" 

"Oh  —  oh  !"  —  Margaret  mimicked  the  eager 
rush  of  words.  "Let  me  take  them,  Dad," 
she  pleaded,  "if  it's  going  to  be  as  fine  as  all 
that !  I'll  stand  treat  for  the  crowd." 

"Oh,  Mark,  you  darling!"  burst  from  the 
rapturous  Rebecca. 


Mother  131 

"Say,  gee,  we've  got  to  get  there  early!" 
Theodore  warned  them,  finishing  his  pudding 
with  one  mammoth  spoonful. 

"If  you  take  them,  my  dear,"  Mr.  Paget  said 
graciously,  "of  course  Mother  and  I  are  quite 
satisfied." 

"I'll  hold  Robert  by  one  ear  and  Rebecca  by 
another,"  Margaret  promised;  "and  if  she  so 
much  as  dares  to  look  at  George  or  Ted  or  Jimmy 
Barr  or  Paul,  I'll—" 

"Oh,  Jimmy  belongs  to  Louise,  now,"  said 
Rebecca,  radiantly.  There  was  a  joyous  shout 
of  laughter  from  the  light-hearted  juniors,  and 
Rebecca,  seeing  her  artless  admission  too  late, 
turned  scarlet  while  she  laughed.  Dinner  broke 
up  in  confusion,  as  dinner  at  home  always  did, 
and  everybody  straggled  upstairs  to  dress. 

Margaret,  changing  her  dress  in  a  room  that 
was  insufferably  hot,  because  the  shades  must 
be  down,  and  the  gas-lights  as  high  as  possible, 
reflected  that  another  forty-eight  hours  would 
see  her  speeding  back  to  the  world  of  cool, 
awninged  interiors,  uniformed  maids,  the  clink 
of  iced  glasses,  the  flash  of  white  sails  on  blue 


132  Mother 

water.  She  could  surely  afford  for  that  time  to 
be  patient  and  sweet.  She  lifted  Rebecca's 
starched  petticoat  from  the  bed  to  give  Mother 
a  seat,  when  Mother  came  rather  wearily  in  to 
watch  them. 

"  Sweet  girl  to  take  them,  Mark,"  said  Mother, 
appreciatively.  "I  was  going  to  ask  Brucie. 
But  he's  gone  to  bed,  poor  fellow;  he's  worn 
out  to-night." 

"He  had  a  letter  from  Ned  Gunther  this 
morning,"  said  Rebecca,  cheerfully,  —  powder 
ing  the  tip  of  her  pretty  nose,  her  eyes  almost 
crossed  with  concentration,  —  "and  I  think  it 
made  him  blue  all  day." 

"Ned  Gunther?"  said  Margaret. 

"Chum  at  college,"  Rebecca  elucidated;  "a 
lot  of  them  are  going  to  Honolulu,  just  for  this 
month,  and  of  course  they  wanted  Bruce. 
Mark,  does  that  show?" 

Margaret's  heart  ached  for  the  beloved 
brother's  disappointment.  There  it  was  again, 
all  wrong !  Before  she  left  the  house  with  the 
rioting  youngsters,  she  ran  upstairs  to  his  room. 
Bruce,  surrounded  by  scientific  magazines,  a 


Mother  133 

drop-light  with  a  vivid  green  shade  over  his 
shoulder,  looked  up  with  a  welcoming  smile. 

"Sit  down  and  talk,  Mark,"  said  he. 

Margaret  explained  her  hurry. 

"Bruce,  —  this  isn't  much  fun!'7  she  said, 
looking  about  the  room  with  its  shabby  dresser 
and  worn  carpet.  "Why  aren't  you  going  to 
the  concert?" 

"Is  there  a  concert?"  he  asked,  surprised. 

"Why,  didn't  you  hear  us  talking  at  dinner? 
The  Elks,  you  know." 

"Well  —  sure!  I  meant  to  go  to  that.  I 
forgot  it  was  to-night,"  he  said,  with  his  lazy 
smile.  "I  came  home  all  in,  forgot  everything." 

"Oh,  come!"  Margaret  urged,  as  eagerly  as 
Rebecca  ever  did.  "It's  early,  Bruce,  come  on  ! 
You  don't  have  to  shave  !  We'll  hold  a  seat,  — 


come  on  ! " 


"Sure,  I  will!"  he  said,  suddenly  roused. 
The  magazines  rapped  on  the  floor,  and  Mar 
garet  had  barely  shut  the  door  behind  her  when 
she  heard  his  bare  feet  follow  them. 

It  was  like  old  times  to  sit  next  to  him  through 
the  hot  merry  evening,  while  Rebecca  glowed 


134  Mother 

like  a  little  rose  among  her  friends,  and  the 
smaller  boys  tickled  her  ear  with  their  whispered 
comments.  Margaret  had  sent  a  telegram  to 
Professor  Tenison,  and  felt  relieved  that  at  least 
that  strain  was  spared  her.  She  even  danced 
with  Bruce  after  the  concert,  and  with  one  or 
two  old  friends. 

Afterwards,  they  strolled  back  slowly  through 
the  inky  summer  dark,  rinding  the  house  hot  and 
close  when  they  came  in.  Margaret  went  up 
stairs,  hearing  her  mother's  apologetic,  "Oh, 
Dad,  why  didn't  I  give  you  back  your  club  ? " 
as  she  passed  the  dining-room  door.  She  knew 
Mother  hated  whist,  and  wondered  rather 
irritably  why  she  played  it.  The  Paget  family 
was  slow  to  settle  down.  Robert  became 
tearful  and  whining  before  he  was  finally  bumped 
protesting  into  bed.  Theodore  and  Duncan 
prolonged  their  ablutions  until  the  noise  of 
shouting,  splashing,  and  thumping  in  the  bath 
room  brought  Mother  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 
Rebecca  was  conversational.  She  lay  with  her 
slender  arms  locked  behind  her  head  on  the 
pillow,  and  talked,  as  Julie  had  talked  on  that 


Mother  135 

memorable  night  five  years  ago.  Margaret, 
restless  in  the  hot  darkness,  wondering  whether 
the  maddening  little  shaft  of  light  from  the  hall 
gas  was  annoying  enough  to  warrant  the  effort 
of  getting  up  and  extinguishing  it,  listened 
and  listened. 

Rebecca  wanted  to  join  the  Stage  Club,  but 
Mother  wouldn't  let  her  unless  Bruce  did. 
Rebecca  belonged  to  the  Progressive  Diners. 
Did  Mark  suppose  Mother'd  think  she  was 
crazy  if  she  asked  the  family  not  to  be  in  evi 
dence  when  the  crowd  came  to  the  house  for  the 
salad  course  ?  And  Rebecca  wanted  to  write  to 
Bruce's  chum,  not  regularly,  you  know,  Mark, 
but  just  now  and  then,  he  was  so  nice !  And 
Mother  didn't  like  the  idea.  Margaret  was 
obviously  supposed  to  lend  a  hand  with  these 
interesting  tangles. 

".  .  .  and  I  said,  ' Certainly  not!  I  won't 
unmask  at  all,  if  it  comes  to  that ! '  .  .  .  And 
imagine  that  elegant  fellow  carrying  my  old 
books  and  my  skates  !  So  I  wrote,  and  Maudie 
and  I  decided  ...  And  Mark,  if  it  wasn't  a 
perfectly  gorgeous  box  of  roses !  .  .  .  That 


136  Mother 

old,  old  dimity,  but  Mother  pressed  and  fresh 
ened  it  up.  ...  Not  that  I  want  to  marry  him, 
or  any  one  ..." 

Margaret  wakened  from  uneasy  drowsing  with 
a  start.  The  hall  was  dark  now,  the  room 
cooler.  Rebecca  was  asleep.  Hands,  hands 
she  knew  well,  were  drawing  a  light  covering 
over  her  shoulders.  She  opened  her  eyes  to  see 
her  mother. 

"I've  been  wondering  if  you're  disappointed 
about  your  friend  not  coming  to-morrow, 
Mark?"  said  the  tender  voice. 

"Oh,  no-o!"  said  Margaret,  hardily. 
"Mother  —  why  are  you  up  so  late?" 

"Just  going  to  bed,"  said  the  other,  soothingly. 
"Blanche  forgot  to  put  the  oatmeal  into  the 
cooker,  and  I  went  downstairs  again.  I'll 
say  my  prayers  in  here." 

Margaret  went  off  to  sleep  again,  as  she  had 
so  many  hundred  times  before,  with  her  mother 
kneeling  beside  her. 


CHAPTER  VII 

|T  seemed  but  a  few  moments 
before  the  blazing  Sunday  was 
precipitated  upon  them,  and 
everybody  was  late  for  every 
thing. 

The  kitchen  was  filled  with  the  smoke 
from  hot  griddles  blue  in  the  sunshine,  when 
Margaret  went  downstairs;  and  in  the  dining- 
room  the  same  merciless  light  fell  upon  the 
sticky  syrup  pitcher,  and  upon  the  stains  on 
the  tablecloth.  Cream  had  been  brought  in 
in  the  bottle,  the  bread  tray  was  heaped  with 
orange  skins,  and  the  rolls  piled  on  the  table 
cloth.  Bruce,  who  had  already  been  to  church 
with  Mother,  and  was  off  for  a  day's  sail,  was 
dividing  his  attention  between  Robert  and  his 
watch.  Rebecca,  daintily  busy  with  the  special 
cup  and  plate  that  were  one  of  her  little  affecta- 
137 


138  Mother 

tions,  was  all  ready  for  the  day,  except  as  to 
dress,  wearing  a  thin  little  kimono  over  her  blue 
ribbons  and  starched  embroideries.  Mother 
was  putting  up  a  little  lunch  for  Bruce.  Con 
fusion  reigned.  The  younger  boys  were  urged 
to  hurry,  if  they  wanted  to  make  the  "nine." 
Rebecca  was  going  to  wait  for  the  "  half-past 
ten,"  because  the  "kids  sang  at  nine,  and  it  was 
fierce."  Mr.  Paget  and  his  sons  departed 
together,  and  the  girls  went  upstairs  for  a  hot, 
tiring  tussle  with  beds  and  dusting  before  start 
ing  for  church.  They  left  their  mother  busy  with 
the  cream  freezer  in  the  kitchen.  It  was  very 
hot  even  then. 

But  it  was  still  hotter,  walking  home  in  the 
burning  midday  stillness.  A  group  of  young 
people  waited  lazily  for  letters,  under  the  trees 
outside  the  post-office  door.  Otherwise  the 
main  street  was  deserted.  A  languid  little 
breeze  brought  the  far  echoes  of  pianos  and 
phonographs  from  this  direction  and  that. 

"Who's  that  on  the  porch?"  said  Rebecca, 
suddenly,  as  they  neared  home,  instantly  finding 
the  stranger  among  her  father  and  the  boys. 


Mother  139 

Margaret,  glancing  up  sharply,  saw,  almost 
with  a  sensation  of  sickness,  the  big,  ungainly 
figure,  the  beaming  smile,  and  the  shock  of  dark 
hair  that  belonged  to  nobody  else  in  the  world 
but  John  Tenison.  A  stony  chill  settled  about 
her  heart  as  she  went  up  the  steps  and  gave 
him  her  hand. 

Oh,  if  he  only  couldn't  stay  to  dinner,  she 
prayed.  Oh,  if  only  he  could  spare  them  time 
for  no  more  than  a  flying  visit !  With  a  sinking 
heart  she  smiled  her  greetings. 

"Doctor  Tenison,  —  this  is  very  nice  of  you  !" 
Margaret  said.  "Have  you  met  my  father  — 
my  small  brothers  ?  " 

"We  have  been  having  a  great  talk,"  said  John 
Tenison,  genially,  "  and  this  young  man  — "he 
indicated  Robert,  "has  been  showing  me  the 
colored  supplement  of  the  paper.  I  didn't 
have  any  word  from  you,  Miss  Paget,"  he  went 
on,  "so  I  took  the  chance  of  finding  you.  And 
your  mother  has  assured  me  that  I  will  not  put 
her  out  by  staying  to  have  luncheon  with  you." 

"Oh,  that's  nice!"  Margaret  said  mechani 
cally,  trying  to  dislodge  Robert  from  the  most 


140  Mother 

comfortable  chair  by  a  significant  touch  of  her 
fingers  on  his  small  shoulder.  Robert  perfectly 
understood  that  she  wanted  the  chair,  but  con 
tinued  in  absorbed  study  of  the  comic  supple 
ment,  merely  wriggling  resentfully  at  Margaret's 
touch.  Margaret,  at  the  moment,  would  have 
been  glad  to  use  violence  on  the  stubborn, 
serene  little  figure.  When  he  was  finally  dis 
lodged,  she  sat  down,  still  flushed  from  her  walk 
and  the  nervousness  Doctor  Tenison's  arrival 
caused  her,  and  tried  to  bring  the  conversation 
into  a  normal  channel.  But  an  interruption 
occurred  in  the  arrival  of  Harry  and  Julie  in  the 
runabout;  the  little  boys  swarmed  down  to 
examine  it.  Julie,  very  pretty,  with  a  per 
ceptible  little  new  air  of  dignity,  went  upstairs 
to  freshen  hair  and  gown,  and  Harry,  pushing  his 
straw  hat  back  the  better  to  mop  his  forehead, 
immediately  engaged  Doctor  Tenison's  attention 
with  the  details  of  what  sounded  to  Margaret 
like  a  particularly  uninteresting  operation,  which 
he  had  witnessed  the  day  before. 

Utterly  discouraged,   and  acutely  wretched, 
Margaret  presently  slipped  away,  and  went  into 


Mother  141 

the  kitchen,  to  lend  a  hand  with  the  dinner 
preparations  if  help  was  needed.  The  room 
presented  a  scene  if  possible  a  little  more  confused 
than  that  of  the  day  before,  and  was  certainly 
hotter.  Her  mother,  flushed  and  hurried,  in  a 
fresh  but  rather  unbecoming  gingham,  was  put 
ting  up  a  cold  supper  for  the  younger  boys,  who, 
having  duly  attended  to  their  religious  duties, 
were  to  take  a  long  afternoon  tramp,  with  a 
possible  interval  of  fishing.  She  buttered  each 
slice  of  the  great  loaf  before  she  cut  it,  and 
lifted  it  carefully  on  the  knife  before  beginning 
the  next  slice.  An  opened  pot  of  jam  stood  at 
her  elbow.  A  tin  cup  and  the  boys'  fishing-gear 
lay  on  a  chair.  Theodore  and  Duncan  them 
selves  hung  over  these  preparations;  never 
apparently  helping  themselves  to  food,  yet 
never  with  empty  mouths.  Blanche,  moaning 
"The  Palms"  with  the  insistence  of  one  who 
wishes  to  show  her  entire  familiarity  with  a 
melody,  was  at  the  range. 

Roast  veal,  instead  of  the  smothered  chickens 
her  mother  had  so  often,  and  cooked  so  deli- 
ciously,  a  mountain  of  mashed  potato  —  corn 


142  Mother 

on  the  cob,  and  an  enormous  heavy  salad 
mantled  with  mayonnaise  —  Margaret  could 
have  wept  over  the  hopelessly  plebeian  dinner ! 

"Mother, mayn't  I  get  down  the  finger-bowls," 
she  asked;  "and  mayn't  we  have  black  coffee 
in  the  silver  pot,  afterwards  ?  " 

Mrs.  Paget  looked  absently  at  her  for  a 
dubious  second.  "I  don't  like  to  ask  Blanche 
to  wash  all  that  extra  glass,"  she  said,  in  an 
undertone,  adding  briskly  to  Theodore,  "No, 
no,  Ted !  You  can't  have  all  that  cake.  Half 
that !"  and  to  Blanche  herself,  "Don't  leave  the 
door  open  when  you  go  in,  Blanche;  I  just 
drove  all  the  flies  out  of  the  dining-room." 
Then  she  returned  to  Margaret  with  a  cordial : 
"Why,  certainly,  dear!  Any  one  who  wants 
coffee,  after  tea,  can  have  it !  Dad  always 
wants  his  cup  of  tea." 

"Nobody  but  us  ever  serves  tea  withTdinner  !" 
Margaret  muttered;  but  her  mother  did  not 
hear  it.  She  buckled  the  strap  of  the  lunch-box, 
straightened  her  back  with  an  air  of  relief,  and 
pushed  down  her  rolled-up  sleeves. 

"Don't  lose  that  napkin,  Ted,"  said  she,  and 


Mother  143 

receiving  the  boy's  grateful  kiss  haphazard 
between  her  hair  and  forehead,  she  added  affec 
tionately:  "You're  more  than  welcome,  dear! 
We're  all  ready,  Mark,  —  go  and  tell  them, 
dear  !  All  right,  Blanche." 

Ruffled  and  angry,  Margaret  went  to  summon 
the  others  to  dinner.  Maudie  had  joined  them 
on  the  porch  now,  and  had  been  urged  to  stay, 
and  was  already  trying  her  youthful  wiles  on  the 
professor. 

"Well,  he'll  have  to  leave  on  the  five  o'clock  1" 
Margaret  reflected,  steeled  to  bitter  endurance 
until  that  time.  For  everything  went  wrong, 
and  dinner  was  one  long  nightmare  for  her. 
Professor  Tenison's  napkin  turned  out  to  be  a 
traycloth.  Blanche,  asked  for  another,  disap 
peared  for  several  minutes,  and  returned  with 
out  it,  to  whisper  in  Mrs.  Paget's  ear.  Mrs. 
Paget  immediately  sent  her  own  fresh  napkin 
to  the  guest.  The  incident,  or  something  in 
their  murmured  conversation,  gave  Rebecca  and 
Maudie  "the  giggles."  There  seemed  an  ex 
hausting  amount  of  passing  and  repassing  of 
plates.  The  room  was  hot,  the  supply  of  ice 


144  Mother 

insufficient.  Mr.  Paget  dwelt  on  his  favorite 
grievance  —  "the  old  man  isn't  needed,  these 
days.  They're  getting  all  young  fellows  into 
the  bank.  They  put  young  college  fellows  in 
there  who  are  getting  pretty  near  the  money  I 
am  —  after  twenty-five  years  !"  In  any  pause, 
Mrs.  Paget  could  be  heard,  patiently  dissuading 
little  Robert  from  his  fixed  intention  of  accom 
panying  the  older  boys  on  their  walk,  whether 
invited  or  uninvited. 

John  Tenison  behaved  charmingly,  eating  his 
dinner  with  enjoyment,  looking  interestedly 
from  one  face  to  the  other,  sympathetic,  alert, 
and  amused.  But  Margaret  writhed  in  spirit 
at  what  he  must  be  thinking. 

Finally  the  ice  cream,  in  a  melting  condition, 
and  the  chocolate  cake,  very  sticky,  made  their 
appearance;  and  although  these  were  regular 
Sunday  treats,  the  boys  felt  called  upon  to  cheer. 
Julie  asked  her  mother  in  an  audible  undertone 
if  she  "ought"  to  eat  cake.  Doctor  Tenison  pro 
duced  an  enormous  box  of  chocolates,  and  Mar 
garet  was  disgusted  with  the  frantic  scramble 
her  brothers  made  to  secure  them. 


Mother  145 

"If  you're  going  for  a  walk,  dear/'  her  mother 
said,  when  the  meal  was  over,  "  you'd  better 
go.  It's  almost  three  now." 

"I  don't  know  whether  we  will,  it's  so  hot," 
Margaret  said,  in  an  indifferent  tone,  but  she 
could  easily  have  broken  into  disheartened  tears. 

"Oh,  go,"  Julie  urged,  "it's  much  cooler  out." 
They  were  up  in  Margaret's  old  room,  Mrs. 
Paget  tying  a  big  apron  about  Julie's  ruffled 
frock,  preparatory  to  an  attack  upon  the 
demoralized  kitchen.  "We  think  he's  lovely," 
the  little  matron  went  on  approvingly.  "Don't 
fall  in  love  with  him,  Mark." 

"Why  not  ?  "  Margaret  said  carelessly,  pinning 
on  her  hat. 

"Well,  I  don't  imagine  he's  a  marrying  man," 
said  the  young  authority,  wisely.  Margaret 
flushed,  and  was  angry  at  herself  for  flushing. 
But  when  Mrs.  Paget  had  gone  downstairs, 
Julie  came  very  simply  and  charmingly  over  to 
her  sister,  and  standing  close  beside  her  with 
embarrassed  eyes  on  her  own  hand,  —  very 
youthful  in  its  plain  ring,  —  as  she  played  with 
the  bureau  furnishing,  she  said :  — 


146  Mother 

"Mother  tell  you?" 

Margaret  looked  down  at  the  flushed  face. 

"Are  you  sorry,  Ju?" 

"Sorry!"  The  conscious  eyes  flashed  into 
view.  "Sorry!"  Julie  echoed  in  astonishment. 
"Why,  Mark,"  she  said  dreamily,  —  there  was 
no  affectation  of  maturity  in  her  manner  now, 
and  it  was  all  the  more  impressive  for  that. 
"Why,  Mark,"  said  she,  "it's  — it's  the  most 
wonderful  thing  that  ever  happened  to  me ! 
I  think  and  think, "  —  her  voice  dropped  very 
low,  —  "of  holding  it  in  my  arms,  —  mine  and 
Harry's,  you  know  —  and  of  its  little  face  ! " 

Margaret,  stirred,  kissed  the  wet  lashes. 

"Ju,  but  you're  so  young  —  you're  such  a 
baby  yourself!"  she  said. 

"And,  Mark,"  Julie  said,  unheeding,  "you 
know  what  Harry  and  I  are  going  to  call  her,  if 
it's  a  girl  ?  Not  for  Mother,  for  it's  so  confusing 
to  have  two  Julias,  but  for  you  !  Because,"  her 
arms  went  about  her  sister,  "you've  always 
been  such  a  darling  to  me,  Mark !" 

Margaret  went  downstairs  very  thoughtfully, 
and  out  into  the  silent  Sunday  streets.  Where 


Mother  147 

they  walked,  or  what  they  talked  of,  she  did  not 
know.  She  knew  that  her  head  ached,  and  that 
the  village  looked  very  commonplace,  and  that 
the  day  was  very  hot.  She  found  it  more  painful 
than  sweet  to  be  strolling  along  beside  the  big, 
loose-jointed  figure,  and  to  send  an  occasional 
side  glance  to  John  Tenison's  earnest  face, 
which  wore  its  pleasantest  expression  now.  Ah, 
well,  it  would  be  all  over  at  five  o'clock,  she  said 
wearily  to  herself,  and  she  could  go  home  and 
lie  down  with  her  aching  head  in  a  darkened 
room,  and  try  not  to  think  what  to-day  might 
have  been.  Try  not  to  think  of  the  dainty 
little  luncheon  Annie  would  have  given  them  at 
Mrs.  Carr-Boldt's,  of  the  luxurious  choice  of 
amusements  afterward :  motoring  over  the 
lovely  country  roads,  rowing  on  the  wide  still 
water,  watching  the  tennis  courts,  or  simply 
resting  in  deep  chairs  on  the  sweep  of  velvet 
lawn  above  the  river. 

She  came  out  of  a  reverie  to  find  Doctoi 
Tenison  glancing  calmly  up  from  his  watch. 

"The  train  was  five  o'clock,  was  it?"  he  said. 
" I've  missed  it!" 


148  Mother 

"Missed  it!"  Margaret  echoed  blankly, 
Then,  as  the  horrible  possibility  dawned  upon 
her,  "Oh,  no!" 

"Oh,  yes,  —  as  bad  as  that !"  he  said,  laugh 
ing  at  her. 

Poor  Margaret,  fighting  despair,  struggled  to 
recover  herself. 

"Well,  I  thought  it  might  have  been  impor 
tant  to  you  !"  she  said,  laughing  quite  naturally. 
"There's  a  seven-six,  but  it  stops  everywhere, 
and  a  ten-thirty.  The  ten-thirty  is  best,  because 
supper's  apt  to  be  a  little  late." 

"The  ten- thirty,"  Doctor  Tenison  echoed  con 
tentedly.  Margaret's  heart  sank.  —  five  more 
hours  of  the  struggle !  "But  perhaps  that's  an 
imposition,"  he  said.  "Isn't  there  a  tea-room 
—  isn't  there  an  inn  here  where  we  could  have 
a  bite?" 

"We  aren't  in  Berlin,"  Margaret  reminded 
him  cheerfully.  ' '  There's  a  hotel,  —  but  Mother 
would  never  forgive  me  for  leading  any  one 
there  1  No,  we'll  take  that  little  walk  I  told  you 
of,  and  Mother  will  give  us  something  to  eat 
later.  —  Perhaps  if  we're  late  enough,"  she 


Mother  149 

added  to  herself,  "we  can  have  just  tea  and  bread 
and  jam  alone,  after  the  others." 

Suddenly,  unreasonably,  she  felt  philosophi 
cal  and  gay.  The  little  episode  of  missing  the 
train  had  given  her  the  old  dear  feeling  of  adven 
ture  and  comradeship  again.  Things  couldn't 
be  any  worse  than  they  had  been  at  noon,  any 
way.  The  experience  had  been  thoroughly 
disenchanting.  What  did  a  few  hours,  more  or 
less,  matter  !  Let  him  be  disgusted  if  he  wanted 
to,  she  couldn't  help  it ! 

It  was  cooler  now,  the  level  late  shadows  were 
making  even  Weston  pretty.  They  went  up 
a  steep  shady  lane  to  the  old  graveyard,  and 
wandered,  peacefully,  contentedly,  among  the 
old  graves.  Margaret  gathered  her  thin  gown 
from  contact  with  the  tangled,  uncut  grass ;  they 
had  to  disturb  a  flock  of  nibbling  sheep  to  cross 
to  the  crumbling  wall.  Leaning  on  the  uneven 
stones  that  formed  it,  they  looked  down  at  the 
roofs  of  the  village,  half  lost  in  tree- tops;  and 
listened  to  the  barking  of  dogs,  and  the  shrill 
voices  of  children.  The  sun  sank  lower,  lower. 
There  was  a  feeling  of  dew  in  the  air  as  they 
went  slowly  home. 


150  Mother 

When,  at  seven  o'clock,  they  opened  the  gate, 
they  found  on  the  side  porch  only  Rebecca, 
enchanting  in  something  pink  and  dotted, 
Mother,  and  Dad. 

" Lucky  we  waited  !"  said  Rebecca,  rising,  and 
signalling  some  wordless  message  to  Margaret 
that  required  dimples,  widened  eyes,  compressed 
lips,  and  an  expression  of  utter  secrecy.  "  Sup 
per's  all  ready,"  she  added  casually. 

"Where  are  the  others?"  Margaret  said, 
experiencing  the  most  pleasant  sensation  she 
had  had  in  twenty-four  hours. 

"  Ju  and  Harry  went  home,  Rob's  at  George's, 
boys  walking,"  said  Rebecca,  briefly,  still  dim 
pling  mysteriously  with  additional  information. 
She  gave  Margaret  an  eloquent  side  glance  as  she 
led  the  way  into  the  dining-room.  At  the  door 
way  Margaret  stopped,  astounded. 

The  room  was  hardly  recognizable  now.  It 
was  cool  and  delightful,  with  the  diminished  table 
daintily  set  for  five.  The  old  silver  candlesticks 
and  silver  teapot  presided  over  blue  bowls  of 
berries,  and  the  choicest  of  Mother's  preserved 
fruits.  Some  one  had  found  time  to  put  fresh 


Mother  1 51 

parsley  about  the  Canton  platter  of  cold  meats, 
some  one  had  made  a  special  trip  to  Mrs. 
O'Brien's  for  the  cream  that  filled  the  Wedg 
wood  pitcher.  Margaret  felt  tears  press  sud 
denly  against  her  eyes. 

"Oh,  Beck!"  she  could  only  stammer,  when 
the  sisters  went  into  the  kitchen  for  hot  water 
and  tea  biscuit. 

"Mother  did  it,"  said  Rebecca,  returning  her 
hug  with  fervor.  "She  gave  us  all  an  awful 
talking  to,  after  you  left !  She  said  here  was 
dear  old  Mark,  who  always  worked  herself  to 
death  for  us,  trying  to  make  a  nice  impression, 
and  to  have  things  go  smoothly,  and  we  were  all 
acting  like  Indians,  and  everything  so  confused 
at  dinner,  and  hot  and  noisy !  So,  later,  when 
Paul  and  I  and  the  others  were  walking,  we  saw 
you  and  Doctor  Tenison  going  up  toward  the 
graveyard,  and  I  tore  home  and  told  Mother 
he'd  missed  the  five  and  would  be  back ;  it  was 
after  five  then,  and  we  just  flew ! " 

It  was  all  like  a  pleasant  awakening  after  a 
troubled  dream.  As  Margaret  took  her  place 
at  the  little  feast,  she  felt  an  exquisite  sensation 


152  Mother 

of  peace  and  content  sink  into  her  heart.  Mother 
was  so  gracious  and  charming,  behind  the  urn; 
Rebecca  irresistible  in  her  admiration  of  the 
famous  professor.  Her  father  was  his  sweetest 
self,  delightfully  reminiscent  of  his  boyhood,  and 
his  visit  to  the  White  House  in  Lincoln's  day, 
with  "my  uncle,  the  judge."  But  it  was  to  her 
mother's  face  that  Margaret's  eyes  returned 
most  often ;  she  wanted  —  she  was  vaguely 
conscious  that  she  wanted  —  to  get  away  from 
the  voices  and  laughter,  and  think  about  Mother. 
How  sweet  she  was,  just  sweet,  and  after  all, 
how  few  people  were  that  in  this  world  !  They 
were  clever,  and  witty,  and  rich,  —  plenty  of 
them,  but  how  little  sweetness  there  was  !  How 
few  faces,  like  her  mother's,  did  not  show  a  line 
that  was  not  all  tenderness  and  goodness. 

They  laughed  over  their  teacups  like  old 
friends;  the  professor  and  Rebecca  shouting 
joyously  together,  Mr.  Paget  one  broad  twinkle, 
Mrs.  Paget  radiantly  reflecting,  as  she  always 
did  reflect,  the  others'  mood.  It  was  a  memo 
rably  happy  hour. 

And  after  tea  they  sat  on  the  porch,  and  the 


Mother  153 

stars  came  out,  and  presently  the  moon  sent 
silver  shafts  through  the  dark  foliage  of  the 
trees.  Little  Rob  came  home,  and  climbed 
silently,  contentedly,  into  his  father's  lap. 

"Sing  something,  Mark,"  said  Dad,  then ;  and 
Margaret,  sitting  on  the  steps  with  her  head 
against  her  mother's  knee,  found  it  very  simple 
to  begin  in  the  darkness  one  of  the  old  songs  he 
loved :  — 

"  Don't  you  cry,  ma  honey, 
Don't  you  weep  no  more." 

Rebecca,  sitting  on  the  rail,  one  slender  arm 
flung  above  her  head  about  the  pillar,  joined  her 
own  young  voice  to  Margaret's  sweet  and  steady 
one.  The  others  hummed  a  little.  John  Teni- 
son,  sitting  watching  them,  his  locked  hands 
hanging  between  his  knees,  saw  in  the  moonlight 
a  sudden  glitter  on  the  mother's  cheek. 

Presently  Bruce,  tired  and  happy  and  sun 
burned,  came  through  the  splashed  silver-and- 
black  of  the  street  to  sit  by  Margaret,  and 
put  his  arm  about  her ;  and  the  younger  boys, 
returning  full  of  the  day's  great  deeds,  spread 
themselves  comfortably  over  the  lower  steps. 


154  Mother 

Before  long  all  their  happy  voices  rose  to 
gether,  on  "Believe  me,"  and  "Working  on 
the  Railroad,"  and  "Seeing  Nellie  Home,"  and 
a  dozen  more  of  the  old  songs  that  young 
people  have  sung  for  half  a  century  in  the 
summer  moonlight. 

And  then  it  was  time  to  say  good-night  to 
Professor  Tenison.  "Come  again,  sir!"  said 
Mr.  Paget,  heartily;  the  boys  slid  their  hands, 
still  faintly  suggestive  of  fish,  cordially  into  his ; 
Rebecca  promised  to  mail  him  a  certain  dis 
cussed  variety  of  fern  the  very  next  day ;  Bruce's 
voice  sounded  all  hearty  good- will  as  he  hoped 
that  he  wouldn't  miss  Doctor  Tenison's  next 
visit.  Mrs.  Paget,  her  hand  in  his,  raised  keen, 
almost  anxious  eyes  to  his  face. 

"But  surely  you'll  be  down  our  way  again?" 
said  she,  unsmilingly. 

"Oh,  surely."  The  professor  was  unable  to 
keep  his  eyes  from  moving  toward  Margaret,  and 
the  mother  saw  it. 

"Good-bye  for  the  present,  then,"  she  said, 
still  very  gravely. 

"  Good-bye,  Mrs.  Paget,"  said  Doctor  Tenison. 


Mother  155 

"It's  been  an  inestimable  privilege  to  meet  you 
all.  I  haven't  ever  had  a  happier  day." 

Margaret,  used  to  the  extravagant  speeches 
of  another  world,  thought  this  merely  very 
charming  politeness.  But  her  heart  sang,  as 
they  walked  away  together.  He  liked  them  — 
he  had  had  a  nice  time  1 

"Now  I  know  what  makes  you  so  different 
from  other  women,"  said  John  Tenison,  when  he 
and  Margaret  were  alone.  "It's  having  that 
wonderful  mother  !  She  —  she  —  well,  she's  one 
woman  in  a  million;  I  don't  have  to  tell  you 
that !  It's  something  to  thank  God  for,  a  mother 
like  that;  it's  a  privilege  to  know  her.  I've 
been  watching  her  all  day,  and  I've  been  won 
dering  what  she  gets  out  of  it,  —  that  was  what 
puzzled  me ;  but  now,  just  now,  I've  found  out ! 
This  morning,  thinking  what  her  life  is,  I  couldn't 
see  what  repaid  her,  do  you  see?  What  made 
up  to  her  for  the  unending,  unending  effort,  and 
sacrifice,  the  pouring  out  of  love  and  sympathy 
and  help  —  year  after  year  after  year.  ..." 

He  hesitated,  but  Margaret  did  not  speak. 

"You  know,"  he  went  on  musingly,  "in  these 


156  Mother 

days,  when  women  just  serenely  ignore  the  ques 
tion  of  children,  or  at  most,  as  a  special  conces 
sion,  bring  up  one  or  two,  —  just  the  one  or 
two  whose  expenses  can  be  comfortably  met !  — 
there's  something  magnificent  in  a  woman  like 
your  mother,  who  begins  eight  destinies  instead 
of  one  !  She  doesn't  strain  and  chafe  to  express 
herself  through  the  medium  of  poetry  or  music 
or  the  stage,  but  she  puts  her  whole  splendid 
philosophy  into  her  nursery  —  launches  sound 
little  bodies  and  minds  that  have  their  first 
growth  cleanly  and  purely  about  her  knees. 
Responsibility,  —  that's  what  these  other  women 
say  they  are  afraid  of !  But  it  seems  to  me  there's 
no  responsibility  like  that  of  decreeing  that 
young  lives  simply  shall  not  be.  Why,  what 
good  is  learning,  or  elegance  of  manner,  or  pain 
fully  acquired  fineness  of  speech,  and  taste  and 
point  of  view,  if  you  are  not  going  to  distil  it 
into  the  growing  plants,  the  only  real  hope  we 
have  in  the  world !  You  know,  Miss  Paget," 
his  smile  was  very  sweet,  in  the  half  darkness, 
"  there's  a  higher  tribunal  than  the  social  'tri 
bunal  of  this  world,  after  all;  and  it  seems  to  me 


Mother  157 

that  a  woman  who  stands  there,  as  your  mother 
will,  with  a  forest  of  new  lives  about  her,  and  a 
record  like  hers,  will  —  will  find  she  has  a  Friend 
at  court !"  he  finished  whimsically. 

They  were  at  a  lonely  corner,  and  a  garden 
fence  offering  Margaret  a  convenient  support, 
she  laid  her  arms  suddenly  upon  the  rosevine 
that  covered  it,  and  her  face  upon  her  arms,  and 
cried  as  if  her  heart  was  broken. 

"Why,  why  —  my  dear  girl!"  the  professor 
said,  aghast.  He  laid  his  hand  on  the  shaking 
shoulders,  but  Margaret  shook  it  off. 

"I'm  not  what  you  think  I  am !"  she  sobbed 
out,  incoherently.  "I'm  not  different  from  other 
women ;  I'm  just  as  selfish  and  bad  and  mean  as 
the  worst  of  them  !  And  I'm  not  worthy  to 
t-tie  my  m-mother's  shoes!" 

"Margaret!"  John  Tenison  said  unsteadily. 
And  in  a  flash  her  drooping  bright  head  was 
close  to  his  lips,  and  both  his  big  arms  were 
about  her.  "You  know  I  love  you,  don't  you 
Margaret?"  he  said  hoarsely,  over  and  over, 
with  a  sort  of  fierce  intensity.  "You  know  that, 
don't  you  ?  Don't  you,  Margaret  ?  " 


158  Mother 

Margaret  could  not  speak.  Emotion  swept 
her  like  a  rising  tide  from  all  her  familiar  moor 
ings;  her  heart  thundered,  there  was  a  roaring 
in  her  ears.  She  was  conscious  of  a  wild  desire 
to  answer  him,  to  say  one  hundredth  part  of  all 
she  felt;  but  she  could  only  rest,  breathless, 
against  him,  her  frightened  eyes  held  by  the 
eyes  so  near,  his  arms  about  her. 

"  You  do,  don't  you,  Margaret  ?"  he  said  more 
gently.  "You  love  me,  don't  you?  Don't 
you?" 

And  after  a  long  time,  or  what  seemed  a  long 
time,  while  they  stood  motionless  in  the  summer 
night,  with  the  great  branches  of  the  trees  mov 
ing  a  little  overhead,  and  garden  scents  creeping 
out  on  the  damp  air,  Margaret  said,  with  a  sort 
of  breathless  catch  in  her  voice :  — 

"You  know  I  do !"  And  with  the  words  the 
fright  left  her  eyes,  and  happy  tears  filled  them, 
and  she  raised  her  face  to  his. 

Coming  back  from  the  train  half  an  hour  later, 
she  walked  between  a  new  heaven  and  a  new 
earth!  The  friendly  stars  seemed  just  over 
head;  a  thousand  delicious  odors  came  from 


Mother  159 

garden  beds  and  recently  watered  lawns.  She 
moved  through  the  confusion  that  always  at 
tended  the  settling  down  of  the  Pagets  for  the 
night,  like  one  in  a  dream,  and  was  glad  to  find 
herself  at  last  lying  in  the  darkness  beside  the 
sleeping  Rebecca  again.  Now,  now,  she  could 
think! 

But  it  was  all  too  wonderful  for  reasonable 
thought.  Margaret  clasped  both  her  hands 
against  her  rising  heart.  He  loved  her.  She 
could  think  of  the  very  words  he  had  used  in 
telling  her,  over  and  over  again.  She  need  no 
longer  wonder  and  dream  and  despair :  he  had 
said  it.  He  loved  her,  had  loved  her  from  the 
very  first.  His  old  aunt  suspected  it,  and  his 
chum  suspected  it,  and  he  had  thought  Margaret 
knew  it.  And  beside  him  in  that  brilliant  career 
that  she  had  followed  so  wistfully  in  her  dreams, 
Margaret  saw  herself,  his  wife.  Young  and 
clever  and  good  to  look  upon,  —  yes,  she  was 
free  to-night  to  admit  herself  all  these  good 
things  for  his  sake !  —  and  his  wife,  mount 
ing  as  he  mounted  beside  the  one  man  in 
the  world  she  had  elected  to  admire  and  love. 


i6o  Mother 

"  Doctor  and  Mrs.  John  Tenison  "  —  so  it  would 
be  written.  "Doctor  Tenison's  wife"  —  "This 
is  Mrs.  Tenison"  —  she  seemed  already  to  hear 
the  magical  sound  o"  it ! 

Love  —  what  a  v  onderf  ul  thing  it  was  !  How 
good  God  was  to  send  this  best  of  all  gifts  to 
her  !  She  thought  how  it  belittled  the  other  good 
things  of  the  world.  She  asked  no  more  of  life, 
now ;  she  was  loved  by  a  good  man,  and  a  great 
man,  and  she  was  to  be  his  wife.  Ah,  the  happy 
years  together  that  would  date  from  to-night,  — 
Margaret  was  thrilling  already  to  their  delights. 
"  For  better  or  worse,"  the  old  words  came  to  her 
with  a  new  meaning.  There  would  be  no  worse, 
she  said  to  herself  with  sudden  conviction,  — 
how  could  there  be?  Poverty,  privation,  sick 
ness  might  come,  —  but  to  bear  them  with  John, 
—  to  comfort  and  sustain  him,  to  be  shut  away 
with  him  from  all  the  world  but  the  world  of  their 
own  four  walls,  —  why,  that  would  be  the  great 
est  happiness  of  all !  What  hardship  could  be 
hard  that  knitted  their  two  hearts  closer  to 
gether;  what  road  too  steep  if  they  essayed  it 
hand  in  hand? 


Mother  161 

And  that  —  her  confused  thoughts  ran  on  — 
that  was  what  had  changed  all  life  for  Julie.  She 
had  forgotten  Europe,  forgotten  all  the  idle  am 
bitions  of  her  girlhood,  because  she  loved  her 
husband ;  and  now  the  new  miracle  was  to  come 
to  her,  —  the  miracle  of  a  child,  the  little  per 
fect  promise  of  the  days  to  come.  How  mar 
vellous  —  how  marvellous  it  was !  The  little 
imperative,  helpless  third  person,  bringing  to 
radiant  youth  and  irresponsibility  the  terrors 
of  danger  and  anguish,  and  the  great  final  joy, 
to  share  together.  That  was  life.  Julie  was 
living ;  and  although  Margaret's  own  heart  was 
not  yet  a  wife's,  and  she  could  not  yet  find  room 
for  the  love  beyond  that,  still  she  was  strangely, 
deeply  stirred  now  by  a  longing  for  all  the  ex 
periences  that  life  held. 

How  she  loved  everything  and  everybody 
to-night,  —  how  she  loved  just  being  alive  — 
just  being  Margaret  Paget,  lying  here  in  the  dark 
dreaming  and  thinking.  There  was  no  one  in 
the  world  with  whom  she  would  change  places 
to-night !  Margaret  found  herself  thinking  of 
one  woman  of  her  acquaintance  after  another, 

M 


1 62  Mother 

—  and  her  own  future,  opening  all  color  of  rose 
before  her,  seemed  to  her  the  one  enviable  path 
through  the  world. 

In  just  one  day,  she  realized  with  vague  won 
der,  her  slowly  formed  theories  had  been  set  at 
naught,  her  whole  philosophy  turned  upside 
down.  Had  these  years  of  protest  and  rebellion 
done  no  more  than  lead  her  in  a  wide  circle,  past 
empty  gain,  and  joyless  mirth,  and  the  dead  sea 
fruit  of  riches  and  idleness,  back  to  her  mother's 
knees  again?  She  had  met  brilliant  women, 
rich  women,  courted  women  —  but  where  among 
them  was  one  whose  face  had  ever  shone  as  her 
mother's  shone  to-day?  The  overdressed,  idle 
dowagers;  the  matrons,  with  their  too-gay 
frocks,  their  too-full  days,  their  too-rich  food; 
the  girls,  all  crudeness,  artifice,  all  scheming 
openly  for  their  own  advantage,  —  where  among 
them  all  was  happiness?  Where  among  them 
was  one  whom  Margaret  had  heard  say  —  as 
she  had  heard  her  mother  say  so  many,  many 
times,  —  "  Children,  this  is  a  happy  day,"  — 
"Thank  God  for  another  lovely  Sunday  all  to 
gether/' —  "Isn't  it  lovely  to  get  up  and  find 


Mother  163 

the  sun  shining  ?"  —  "  Isn't  it  good  to  come 
home  hungry  to  such  a  nice  dinner!" 

And  what  a  share  of  happiness  her  mother  had 
given  the  world !  How  she  had  planned  and 
worked  for  them  all,  —  Margaret  let  her  arm 
fall  across  the  sudden  ache  in  her  eyes  as  she 
thought  of  the  Christmas  mornings,  and  the 
stuffed  stockings  at  the  fireplace  that  proved 
every  childish  wish  remembered,  every  little 
hidden  hope  guessed  !  Darling  Mother  —  she 
hadn't  had  much  money  for  those  Christmas 
stockings,  they  must  have  been  carefully  planned, 
down  to  the  last  candy  cane.  And  how  her  face 
would  beam,  as  she  sat  at  the  breakfast-table, 
enjoying  her  belated  coffee,  after  the  cold  walk 
to  church,  and  responding  warmly  to  the  on 
slaught  of  kisses  and  hugs  that  added  fresh  color 
to  her  cold,  rosy  cheeks  !  What  a  mother  she 
was,  —  Margaret  remembered  her  making  them 
all  help  her  clear  up  the  Christmas  disorder  of 
tissue  paper  and  ribbons ;  then  came  the  inevi 
table  bed  making,  then  tippets  and  overshoes,  for 
a  long  walk  with  Dad.  They  would  come  back 
to  find  the  dining-room  warm,  the  long  table 


1 64  Mother 

set,  the  house  deliciously  fragrant  from  the  im 
mense  turkey  that  their  mother,  a  fresh  apron 
over  her  holiday  gown,  was  basting  at  the  oven. 
Then  came  the  feast,  and  then  games  until  twi 
light,  and  more  table-setting;  and  the  baby, 
whoever  he  was,  was  tucked  away  upstairs  be 
fore  tea,  and  the  evening  ended  with  singing, 
gathered  about  Mother  at  the  piano. 

"How  happy  we  all  were!"  Margaret  said; 
"and  how  she  worked  for  us  !" 

And  suddenly  theories  and  speculation  ended, 
and  she  knew.  She  knew  that  faithful,  self -forget 
ting  service,  and  the  love  that  spends  itself  over 
and  over,  only  to  be  renewed  again  and  again, 
are  the  secret  of  happiness.  For  another  world, 
perhaps,  leisure  and  beauty  and  luxury  —  but 
in  this  one,  "Who  loses  his  life  shall  gain  it." 
Margaret  knew  now  that  her  mother  was  not 
only  the  truest,  the  finest,  the  most  generous 
woman  she  had  ever  known,  but  the  happiest 
as  well. 

She  thought  of  other  women  like  her  mother ; 
she  suddenly  saw  what  made  their  lives  beau 
tiful.  She  could  understand  now  why  Emily 


Mother  165 

Porter,  her  old  brave  little  associate  of  school- 
teaching  days,  was  .always  bright,  why  Mary 
Page,  plodding  home  from  the  long  day  at  the 
library  desk  to  her  little  cottage  and  crippled 
sister,  at  night,  always  made  one  feel  the  better 
and  happier  for  meeting  her. 

Mrs.  Carr-Boldt's  days  were  crowded  to  the 
last  instant,  it  was  true ;  but  what  a  farce  it  was, 
after  all,  Margaret  said  to  herself  in  all  honesty, 
to  humor  her  in  her  little  favorite  belief  that  she 
was  a  busy  woman  !  Milliner,  manicure,  butler, 
chef,  club,  card-table,  tea-table,  —  these  and  a 
thousand  things  like  them  filled  her  day,  and 
they  might  all  be  swept  away  in  an  hour,  and 
leave  no  one  the  worse.  Suppose  her  own  sum 
mons  came ;  there  would  be  a  little  flurry  through 
out  the  great  establishment,  legal  matters  to 
settle,  notes  of  thanks  to  be  written  for  flowers. 
Margaret  could  imagine  Victoria  and  Harriet, 
awed  but  otherwise  unaffected,  home  from  school 
in  midweek,  and  to  be  sent  back  before  the  next 
Monday.  Their  lives  would  go  on  unchanged, 
their  mother  had  never  buttered  bread  for  them, 
never  schemed  for  their  boots  and  hats,  never 


1 66  Mother 

watched  their  work  and  play,  and  called  them 
to  her  knees  for  praise  and  blame.  Mr.  Carr- 
Boldt  would  have  his  club,  his  business,  his 
yacht,  his  motor-cars,  —  he  was  well  accustomed 
to  living  in  cheerful  independence  of  family 
claims. 

But  life  without  Mother  — !  In  a  sick  mo 
ment  of  revelation,  Margaret  saw  it.  She  saw 
them  gathering  in  the  horrible  emptiness  and 
silence  of  the  house  Mother  had  kept  so  warm 
and  bright,  she  saw  her  father's  stooped  shoul 
ders  and  trembling  hands,  she  saw  Julie  and 
Beck,  red-eyed,  white-cheeked,  in  fresh  black, 
—  she  seemed  to  hear  the  low-toned  voices  that 
would  break  over  and  over  again  so  cruelly  into 
sobs.  What  could  they  do  —  who  could  take 
up  the  work  she  laid  down,  —  who  would  watch 
and  plan  and  work  for  them  all,  now?  Mar 
garet  thought  of  the  empty  place  at  the  table, 
of  the  room  that,  after  all  these  years,  was  no 
longer  "Mother's  room — " 

Oh,  no  —  no  —  no  !  —  She  began  to  cry  bit 
terly  in  the  dark.  No,  please  God,  they  would 
hold  her  safe  with  them  for  many  years.  Mother 


Mother  167 

should  live  to  see  some  of  the  fruits  of  the  long 
labor  of  love.  She  should  know  that  with  every 
fresh  step  in  life,  with  every  deepening  expe 
rience,  her  children  grew  to  love  her  better, 
turned  to  her  more  and  more  !  There  would 
be  Christmases  as  sweet  as  the  old  ones,  if  not 
so  gay ;  there  would  come  a  day  —  Margaret's 
whole  being  thrilled  to  the  thought  —  when  little 
forms  would  run  ahead  of  John  and  herself  up 
the  worn  path,  and  when  their  children  would 
be  gathered  in  Mother's  experienced  arms ! 
Did  life  hold  a  more  exquisite  moment,  she 
wondered,  than  that  in  which  she  would  hear 
her  mother  praise  them ! 

All  her  old  castles  in  the  air  seemed  cheap  and 
tinselled  to-night,  beside  these  tender  dreams 
that  had  their  roots  in  the  real  truths  of  life. 
Travel  and  position,  gowns  and  motor-cars, 
yachts  and  country  houses,  these  things  were  to 
be  bought  in  all  their  perfection  by  the  highest 
bidder,  and  always  would  be.  But  love  and 
character  and  service,  home  and  the  wonderful 
charge  of  little  lives,  —  the  "pure  religion  breath 
ing  household  laws"  that  guided  and  perfected 


1 68  Mother 

the  whole,  —  these  were  not  to  be  bought, 
they  were  only  to  be  prayed  for,  worked  for, 
bravely  won. 

"God  has  been  very  good  to  me,"  Margaret 
said  to  herself  very  seriously;  and  in  her  old 
childish  fashion  she  made  some  new  resolves. 
From  now  on,  she  thought,  with  a  fervor  that 
made  it  seem  half  accomplished,  she  would  be 
a  very  different  woman.  If  joy  came,  she  would 
share  it  as  far  as  she  could ;  if  sorrow,  she  would 
show  her  mother  that  her  daughter  was  not  all 
unworthy  of  her.  To-morrow,  she  thought,  she 
would  go  and  see  Julie.  Dear  old  Ju,  whose 
heart  was  so  full  of  the  little  Margaret !  Mar 
garet  had  a  sudden  tender  memory  of  the  days 
when  Theodore  and  Duncan  and  Rob  were 
all  babies  in  turn.  Her  mother  would  gather 
the  little  daily  supply  of  fresh  clothes  from 
bureau  and  chest  every  morning,  and  carry  the 
little  bath-tub  into  the  sunny  nursery  window, 
and  sit  there  with  only  a  bobbing  downy  head 
and  waving  pink  ringers  visible  from  the  great 
warm  bundle  of  bath  apron.  ...  Ju  would 
be  doing  that  now. 


Mother  169 

And  she  had  sometimes  wished,  or  half  formed 
the  wish,  that  she  and  Bruce  had  been  the  only 
ones  — !  Yes,  came  the  sudden  thought,  but 
it  wouldn't  have  been  Bruce  and  Margaret, 
after  all,  it  would  have  been  Bruce  and  Charlie. 

Good  God  !  That  was  what  women  did,  then, 
when  they  denied  the  right  of  life  to  the  distant, 
unwanted,  possible  little  person  !  Calmly,  con 
stantly,  in  all  placid  philosophy  and  self-justi 
fication,  they  kept  from  the  world  —  not  only 
the  troublesome  new  baby,  with  his  tears  and 
his  illnesses,  his  merciless  exactions,  his  endless 
claim  on  mind  and  body  and  spirit — :but 
perhaps  the  glowing  beauty  of  a  Rebecca,  the 
buoyant  indomitable  spirit  of  a  Ted,  the  sturdy 
charm  of  a  small  Robert,  whose  grip  on  life, 
whose  energy  and  ambition  were  as  strong  as 
Margaret's  own ! 

Margaret  stirred  uneasily,  frowned  in  the 
dark.  It  seemed  perfectly  incredible,  it  seemed 
perfectly  impossible  that  if  Mother  had  had  only 
the  two  —  and  how  many  thousands  of  women 
didn't  have  that !  —  she,  Margaret,  a  pronounced 
and  separate  entity,  travelled,  ambitious,  and 


170  Mother 

to  be  the  wife  of  one  of  the  world's  great  men, 
might  not  have  been  lying  here  in  the  summer 
night,  rich  in  love  and  youth  and  beauty  and 
her  dreams ! 

It  was  all  puzzling,  all  too  big  for  her  to  under 
stand.  But  she  could  do  what  Mother  did,  just 
take  the  nearest  duty  and  fulfil  it,  and  sleep  well, 
and  rise  joyfully  to  fresh  effort. 

Margaret  felt  as  if  she  would  never  sleep 
again.  The  summer  night  was  cool,  she  was 
cramped  and  chilly;  but  still  her  thoughts 
raced  on,  and  she  could  not  shut  her  eyes.  She 
turned  and  pressed  her  face  resolutely  into  the 
pillow,  and  with  a  great  sigh  renounced  the  joys 
and  sorrows,  the  lessons  and  the  awakening  that 
the  long  day  had  held. 

A  second  later  there  was  a  gentle  rustle  at  the 
door. 

"Mark — "  a  voice  whispered.  "Can't  you 
sleep?" 

Margaret  locked  her  arms  tight  about  her 
mother,  as  the  older  vrcman  knelt  beside  her. 

"Why,  how  cold  you  are,  sweetheart!"  her 
mother  protested,  tucking  covers  about  her.  "I 


Mother  171 

thought  I  heard  you  sigh !  I  got  up  to  lock  the 
stairway  door ;  Baby's  gotten  a  trick  of  walking 
in  his  sleep  when  he's  overtired.  It's  nearly  one 
o'clock,  Mark!  What  have  you  been  doing?" 

"Thinking."  Margaret  put  her  lips  close  to 
her  mother's  ear.  "Mother — "  she  stammered 
and  stopped.  Mrs.  Paget  kissed  her. 

"Daddy  and  I  thought  so,"  she  said  simply; 
and  further  announcement  was  not  needed. 
"My  darling  little  girl!"  she  added  tenderly; 
and  then,  after  a  silence,  "He  is  very  fine,  Mark, 
so  unaffected,  so  gentle  and  nice  with  the  boys. 
I  —  I  think  I'm  glad,  Mark.  I  lose  my  girl, 
but  there's  no  happiness  like  a  happy  marriage, 
dear." 

"No,  you  won't  lose  me,  Mother,"  Margaret 
said,  clinging  very  close.  "We  hadn't  much 
time  to  talk,  but  this  much  we  did  decide.  You 
see,  John  —  John  goes  to  Germany  for  a  year, 
next  July.  So  we  thought  —  in  June  or  July, 
Mother,  just  as  Julie's  was !  Just  a  little 
wedding  like  Ju's.  You  see,  that's  better  than 
interrupting  the  term,  or  trying  to  settle  down, 
when  we'd  have  to  move  in  July.  And,  Mother, 


172  Mother 

I'm  going  to  write  Mrs.  Carr-Boldt,  —  she  can 
get  a  thousand  girls  to  take  my  place,  her  niece 
is  dying  to  do  it !  —  and  I'm  going  to  take  my 
old  school  here  for  the  term.  Mr.  Forbes  spoke 
to  me  about  it  after  church  this  morning ;  they 
want  me  back.  I  want  this  year  at  home;  I 
want  to  see  more  of  Bruce  and  Ju,  and  sort  of 
stand  by  darling  little  Beck !  But  it's  for  you, 
most  of  all,  Mother,"  said  Margaret,  with  diffi 
culty.  "I've  always  loved  you,  Mother,  but 
you  don't  know  how  wonderful  I  think  you 
are—"  She  broke  off  pitifully,  "Ah,  Mother  I" 

For  her  mother's  arms  had  tightened  con 
vulsively  about  her,  and  the  face  against  her 
own  was  wet. 

"Are  you  talking?"  said  Rebecca,  rearing 
herself  up  suddenly,  with  a  web  of  bright  hair 
falling  over  her  shoulder.  "You  said  your 
prayers  on  Mark  last  night — "  said  she, 
reproachfully,  "come  over  and  say  them  on 
me  to-night,  Mother." 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below, 
or  on  the  date  to  which  renewed.  Renewals  only: 

Tel.  No.  642-3405 

Renewals  may  be  made  4  days  prior  to  date  due. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


IN  STACKS        DEC  3 -71 


M&R  1  3 

••  ••'•*.•>   - 


LD21A-40m-8,'71 
(P6572slO)476-A-32 


Unh 


-   ,  raVrforn\a 
CA  9^04-4698 


^5i5  16M  4-°2 


